To all those who read this book.

While this book is free, a donation to the Worldwide Fund for Nature (or World Wildlife Fund) would be greatly appreciated and the authors too would be delighted to know that the wild life of the world will benefit from the generosity of the readers. 

If you are based in the UK, please send your donation to: 

WWF-UK
Panda House
Weyside Park, Godalming
Surrey GU7 1XR 

Any cheques should be payable to WWF-UK. 

If you are not based in the UK, please visit the WWF website (http://www.wwf.org/) and follow the link to the WWF link for your country, where you will be able to find details of how to make a donation. 

Please feel free to copy this book and send it to all of your friends, however you may not alter the book in any way.
If you do pass on this book to other persons, you may not charge for the book, however please do request that anyone who reads the book makes a donation to the WWF.

This book is copyright J&G Newmark, 2000

THE BOOK IS PROVIDED "AS IS" WITHOUT WARRANTY OF ANY KIND, EITHER EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING, BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A PARTICULAR PURPOSE.  IN NO EVENT WILL THE AUTHORS BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ANY DAMAGES, INCLUDING INCIDENTAL OR CONSEQUENTIAL DAMAGES, ARISING OUT OF THE USE OF THE BOOK, EVEN IF ADVISED OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES. 

YOU ACKNOWLEDGE THAT YOU HAVE READ THIS DISCLAIMER, UNDERSTAND IT AND AGREE TO BE BOUND BY ITS TERMS AS THE COMPLETE AND EXCLUSIVE STATEMENT OF THE AGREEMENT BETWEEN US, SUPERSEDING ANY PROPOSAL OR PRIOR AGREEMENT, ORAL OR WRITTEN and ANY OTHER COMMUNICATIONS BETWEEN US RELATING TO THE SUBJECT MATTER OF THIS DISCLAIMER. 

TWO BY TWO TO LONDON ZOO

BY JOHN AND GEORGE NEWMARK

INTRODUCTION
A ZOO IS BORN
TOOSIE THE TORTOISE
SNAKE IN A BOOT
REFUGE IN A RIFLE
MEET MR.NG
SNOOKER BALL WITH LEGS
AN EMPEROR COMES TO TEA
BEETLES IN THE BEDROOM
ONE ROYAL PYTHON
TURTLE FOR A DOLLAR
SMALL PARK, BIG GAME
DO NOT DISTURB, LIONS AT REST
SNAKE ON BOARD, DRIVER FLEES
DO YOU WANT TO BUY A SLOTH?
THAILAND INCIDENT
St. LUCIA PARROT
SNAKE CHARMER CHARMED
KNOCK KNOCK
QUIET, PLEASE, THERE’S AN ELEPHANT
OUT OF BOUNDS TO BABOONS  (by John)
SOMEBODY DROPPED A BRICK (by George)
TO TELL THE TRUTH
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

INTRODUCTION

This book is for amateur naturalists, budding zoologists, animal lovers, would-be collectors and anyone who would dearly like to discover a brand new animal hitherto unknown to science.  It should be explained straight away that the word ‘animal’ refers to almost every living thing apart from plants and a few oddities such as fungi and bacteria.  Of course everybody knows that a hippopotamus is an animal, but so is a robin and a python and a frog, a goldfish, shrimp, daddy-long-legs, a red admiral and a worm; and people.
However, this is not a scientific book; it has been written by two of us and we can be described as truly identical twins.  We both became interested in animals when, aged about five, we were taken to London Zoo for the first time.  For weeks and months afterwards we talked about animals, thought about animals, dreamed about animals.  A visit to the Zoo became our favourite treat and we soon came to know some of the keepers, especially those in the Bird House, Reptile House and Insect House.  We were allowed behind the scenes to handle the animals and of course we learnt more and more about their feeding habits, their life in the wild and so on.  For this privilege and following the advice of our parents, we always gave each keeper a tip: sixpence.  It was quite a lot of money in those days.
On one occasion we happened to meet a very important person at the Zoo, Mr. E.G.Boulenger, Curator of Reptiles, Director of the Aquarium and a world authority on marine and freshwater fish.  All we wanted to know was why one of our six goldfish had grown a longer and more beautiful tail than the other five. “Aha!” he exclaimed and proceeded to explain.  We listened more in awe than understanding and at the end of his rather detailed explanation we thanked him very much indeed and, following our normal custom, we gave him sixpence.
Since those far-off days we have visited the Zoo many times, but it was not until after World War II that we became Fellows of the Zoological Society of London and Life Fellows later still.  Having taken that step we felt it was right and proper to help the Society by adding a few more animals to their large and world famous collection.  It would also fulfil a long-cherished ambition of ours to be animal collectors, though not as a paid job; just a hobby.  Accordingly we went on a two-week holiday to Morocco, largely to indulge in another hobby, bird watching, but mainly to capture whatever we could find in the way of reptiles and insects.  The insects went into plastic boxes, which we had bought for that purpose.  We furnished them with leaves, moss, twigs and rolled-up pieces of tissue paper to keep the insects free from bumps whilst being transported.  Snakes went into cloth money bags kindly lent to us by Lloyds and Barclays banks.  Most snakes are perfectly happy to coil up and sleep once they find themselves in a bag, but they do need to be kept slightly damp.  It is an easy matter just to splash them with water occasionally.
By the end of the holiday we had a nice selection of animals including seven snakes, nine lizards, a few geckoes, skinks and toads and an assortment of beetles, scorpions and other creatures.  For the plane journey home we carried all the livestock with us, carefully packed together with our shirts and socks and pyjamas in four holdalls.  It was a night flight and it passed uneventfully as the passengers slept blissfully unaware of what accompanied them.  Once or twice we took the snake bags to the rear of the plane and sprinkled them with water in the toilets.
Going through Customs at Gatwick Airport was no problem; we just went through.
Not until we delivered our collection to the Zoo’s Reptile and Insect Houses did we consider our holiday over, mission completed.  It was a moment of great satisfaction to us and, hopefully, to the Head Keepers as they examined their specimens with a professional eye.
Thus ended our collecting trip.  Little did we know that it was to be the first of 25 similar expeditions at the rate of one a year for the next quarter of a century; expeditions to wild and remote corners of Asia, Africa and South America; to rain forests, grasslands, deserts and swamps.  To enlarge our collections we began taking a couple or more zoology students with us who not only thoroughly enjoyed themselves chasing lizards in desert areas and plunging into swamps after frogs and salamanders, but gained some practical experience and knowledge, all very helpful in passing exams.  On one memorable trip 85 members of the Zoo’s XYZ Club plus four of the Staff accompanied us on a tour of several game parks in Kenya and Tanzania.
As a result of all those expeditions we were able to present a total of roughly 3,000 specimens including rattlesnakes and pythons, a variety of lizards, three-eyed skinks, a turnip-tailed gecko, poison-arrow frogs, granulated toads, two-toned scorpions, black widow spiders, tarantulas or bird-eating spiders, singing beetles, rhinoceros beetles, assassin bugs and many more, all alive and squirming and all destined to spend the rest of their lives in the utmost comfort without fear of being gobbled up by hungry predators.  Indeed, many of them produced families once they had settled down in their new homes.  One tarantula produced nearly one hundred babies.
That is what this book is all about.  It tells of the adventures, sometimes exciting, humorous or bizarre, that befell us in our search for animals; how 20 giant rhinoceros beetles invaded our bedroom in a jungle one night; what happened when a six-inch scorpion invited itself to a garden tea party being held in our honour; a perilous occasion when a herd of elephants surrounded our minibus and shook it and the passengers as they lumbered past; how John and his friends came to be evicted from his car by a troop of hungry baboons; and the strange events that occurred when George visited a house known to be the haunt of a poltergeist.  That gives a taste of some of the incidents we experienced, nearly all of them during the 25 holidays we spent collecting for the Zoo.
With conservation as important as it is nowadays, it is worth mentioning that not one single animal we brought back with us was an endangered species.  There are some endangered reptiles in the world including one or two crocodile species but we certainly had no intention of going anywhere near a crocodile, not even a baby one.  As for insect species, there are known to be a million or more; nobody knows how many and nobody will ever know for sure because new species are being discovered often and it is quite possible that another million or two have still to be discovered, described and classified, all of which will take for ever.  The rain forest canopy, or what is left of it, is the best place to search for new creatures.  What a challenge that presents to the budding generation of zoologists!
We hope the stories in this book will be enjoyed by everyone who reads them, children, teenagers and adults of all ages and we wish you good luck and good hunting to anyone who takes up that challenge.  What a pity we twins cannot turn the clock back and start all over again!

CHAPTER 1
A ZOO IS BORN

We were five years old and lived in a large house together with our four sisters and a brother and of course our parents.  We twins were the youngest.  At the back of the house was a fair-sized garden with a greenhouse in one corner and in the greenhouse were several glass-covered seed boxes full of plants in various edges of growth.  These were the responsibility of the gardener, William, who tended them with loving care, watered them daily and sometimes he even spoke to them though he may have been talking to himself.  He really cherished those seed boxes.
So did we, but for a totally different reason.  We were not a bit interested in plants, only in the boxes with the glass covers.  Who at the age of five wants to wait weeks and months for seeds to grow into flowers? The garden was full of flowers already.  We wanted something a little more exciting, something that moved which we could watch and keep in cages like they do at the Zoo.  Those seed boxes would make ideal cages.
Accordingly, one afternoon when William was busy mending a wheelbarrow and out of sight and the rest of the family were occupied in the sitting room, we crept into the greenhouse, selected one of the seed boxes and between us carried it across to the far end of the garden where, behind the safety of a hedge, we tipped the contents on to a rubbish heap.  After a short rest we then returned to the greenhouse and repeated the deed, or rather the misdeed, with a second box and then again with a third.  To be perfectly honest, we had a feeling that we were being naughty, though not really because our plan was to start a business and our Father was the head of a large business in the heart of London.  We were only following his example.  So now that we were in possession of three seed boxes and their glass covers, we carted them across to our own corner of the garden.
It should be explained here that each member of the family had his or her own corner of the garden.  Our sisters had quite large areas and grew a profusion of colourful flowers.  Edward, our brother, liked to grow shrubs as well so he owned a large patch too.  We shared the smallest patch and had the least in it, though we certainly had the most weeds.  Occasionally when we were alone we picked a few blossoms from the other gardens and stuck them into ours.
On this particular afternoon we proceeded to furnish our three boxes with a few small rocks, some twigs and a number of our weeds.  The boxes fitted nicely side by side in our patch and would look nicer still when our secret mission was completed.  We then set forth on our very first collecting trip equipped with our seaside spades and buckets and William’s cloth cap which would serve as a butterfly net.  Our destination was once again the rubbish heap.  William had often shown us all kinds of small creatures there just by turning over a handful of earth, so without glancing at the young plants we had scattered around, we dug down into the depths with our spades and scooped up helpings of earth together with a variety of wriggling and scampering animals all thoroughly annoyed at being disturbed.  They duly went into the buckets.  When we had enough we took them all back to the seed boxes and before long each box had occupants.  One became the Insect House and contained several woodlice, some ants, an earwig and a beetle.  Another box was transformed into a Reptile House and was inhabited by some snails, three worms and a millipede.  The final box was to be our Butterfly House but we only managed to catch one tattered cabbage white butterfly in William’s cap and by the time we put it into its box it was no longer able to fly.
Thus opened London’s newest and smallest zoo.  We considered it to be a branch of London Zoo, an overflow, so to speak.  London Zoo was our favourite place to visit whenever we were taken out and we always chose it in preference to a museum or the swimming baths or skating rink or Madame Tussaud’s.  The Natural History museum was our second choice.  With our zoo ready for business, we now discussed admission prices and decided to charge one penny for grown-ups and half price for children under four.  As we were five, that placed us in the category of grown-ups which we felt was only right and proper bearing in mind that we owned the zoo.  All we required now were the visitors.
We returned to the house, went in by the back door and straight out through the front door and there we stood waiting for a stream of people seeking admission to the zoo.  Plenty of people passed by, one or two even called, ‘Hallo, twins’ and walked on, but nobody walked in.  We wondered why and thought perhaps we should have washed our hands first for they were distinctly grubby.  Then, simultaneously, we both suddenly realised that nobody knew that a zoo existed in our garden, not even our own family.  Tomorrow, we thought, William would make a notice for us to put up outside the front door.  In the meantime the public would have to wait, but there was no reason why our own brother and sisters should not have a preview.
Back we went indoors, gave our hands a quick rinse, then walked into the sitting room where a scene of well-ordered peace confronted us; Dorothy, our eldest sister, was quietly practising a Chopin nocturne, Sylvia and Phyllis were reading and Edna was sewing on a button, whilst Edward was busy sticking stamps into his album.

“Who wants to visit our zoo?” we blurted out shattering the silence.
“Your what?” asked somebody in astonishment.
“Our zoo,” we repeated, “and it will cost you each a penny.”

We were overjoyed when after a brief discussion they each produced a penny; so did Mother, Father was out, but so did the cook and the maid when the news spread to their respective departments.  Thus, even before the zoo was officially opened, we had made a profit; our collection of animals had cost us nothing but a lot of energy and the cages were free.  Our business was flourishing.  We did discuss whether to spend the money on food for the animals, but we didn’t know what they ate, so we spent it on sweets for ourselves.
The zoo’s history was brief.  To begin with, most of the creatures disappeared through cracks in the boxes; the snails oozed their way out through a gap where the glass cover met or didn’t meet the top of the box and the cabbage white expired in a corner.
Then there was William.  He had learnt, first from the maid and confirmed by the cook, that three wooden boxes looking suspiciously like his precious seed boxes had now been turned into a Reptile House and an Insect House and a Butterfly House, all on display, would you believe it, on our patch at the bottom of the garden.  Naturally, William went to see for himself and without paying either.  Exactly what he had to say to us is best forgotten and we didn’t fully understand because most of it appeared to be in a foreign language.  Even so, we were both bundled straight upstairs without any supper and sent to bed.  Sadder still, our zoo was closed, but it had been open for a few hours and had made a profit, so in our eyes at least it was a success.  Perhaps one day we would go on another collecting trip.  Who knows?

CHAPTER 2
TOOSIE THE TORTOISE

We made our first presentation to the London Zoo at the age of eight.  We gave them a tortoise.  It had been given to us as a birthday present by Auntie Toosie.  Knowing how fond we were of animals, she had decided a tortoise would keep us out of mischief for a long time and our opinion of aunts in general rose to a high level.  In honour of this particular aunt, we named our tortoise Toosie.  During the summer holidays it lived very happily in the garden feeding on dandelions, vegetable scraps and apple cores, but towards the end of the holidays when we would be going back to boarding school, we knew we would have to ask somebody to look after Toosie.  We wondered whether to ask William, but the painful incident of the seed boxes had not been forgotten; and when he first heard that we were the proud owners of a tortoise, he warned us to never dare allow it to wander anywhere near his vegetable garden, otherwise it would meet a very sticky end.  We didn’t know what he would stick it to but his voice was menacing, so we ruled him out.
Edward and our sisters would all be going back to school too.  What about Mother?  Possibly, but she didn’t really know too much about tortoises and she was always busy sewing on buttons or making marmalade or turning out drawers.  Father was out all day doing something in the city.  Business he called it but we were not very interested.  There was nobody else to ask.
We sat in silence, thinking and not for the first time our thoughts ran on the same track.
“I know!” exclaimed one of us.
“So do I!” called out the other one.
“Let’s present it to the Zoo!” we both said in one voice.
We had visited London Zoo many times and had always been fascinated with the labels attached to each cage.  Every label gave the name of the animal on display and, its Latin name and its country of origin which was also shown on a map; but to us the most important part of the label was where it gave the name of the person who presented the animal.  We pictured it in our minds: Tortoise; then a Latin name Africa; Presented by John and George.  No, that didn’t look quite right.  Presented by Master John and Master George Newmark.  That was much better, much more professional.  We could do the same during our next school holidays.  We could save up all our pocket money and buy a lizard or a small snake from Palmers in Camden Town and present it to the Zoo.  In time we might even be summoned to Buckingham Palace to become Sir John and Sir George.  Then the teachers at school would have to call us Sir instead of the other way round.  They had already given us nicknames:  Abomination and Desolation.  We didn’t know which was which and we didn’t know what they meant, but we were perfectly happy to have a nickname because it put us on the same level as the science master who was called Stinky.
To return to the tortoise.  Having decided to present it to the Zoo, we set off there on the last Monday of the holidays.  Monday was always half price day and therefore very crowded, but we didn’t mind that.  Nor did we mind lots of people looking at us as we walked right through the Zoo to the farthest corner where the Reptile House was in those days.  We must have looked a curious sight, two small boys, obviously twins, dressed in our Sunday best even though it was Monday and carrying a bucket between us.  Many of the visitors pressed in around us to peer inside.  We felt really important.
At length we reached the Reptile House.  Near the entrance was a large enclosure surrounded by a low brick wall within which plodded many tortoises large and small.  Several were Toosie’s size and we concluded would soon make friends with her.  We looked at the labels attached to the wall and wondered whether our label would be fixed at one end of the row or in the middle; small details of that nature were of some importance to us.
We entered the building and immediately saw a keeper standing by the crocodile pool.  He saw us at the same time and walked over to us.
“What have you got in there then?” he asked, pointing to the bucket.
“Oh,” replied John, “we would like to present you with a tortoise.”
“It’s called Toosie,” added George.
A small crowd, gathered round.  One lady looked into the bucket and then looked at us and said, “How sweet”.  We smiled, wondering whether she was referring to us or to Toosie.  We handed the bucket to the keeper.  This was our moment.
“Wait there a moment.” he called out as he walked away with it.
We waited and hoped he would remember to return the bucket.
He did.  He not only gave us back the bucket but he gave Toosie back as well.  He was very nice about it and thanked us for our kind and generous offer, but went on to explain that the Zoo already had too many tortoises and could not accept any more.
It was a major disaster and we were bitterly disappointed.  The keeper returned to his duties and we walked slowly outside with Toosie in the bucket.  Poor Toosie; she would have been so happy with all the other tortoises in that enclosure.  We stopped by the wall again and looked at the labels.  They were a little too low down to be read easily, but the wall itself was rather low.  We were thinking and we each knew what the other one was thinking about.  Why not present Toosie anyway?  We could easily lift her over the wall and put her on the grass.  One more tortoise wouldn’t make any difference; there was plenty of room.
We chose a moment when there were not many people around; most of them were inside the Reptile House.  With a quick glance to ensure nobody was looking, one of us lifted Toosie out of the bucket, reached over the wall and deposited her gently on the grass.  Not daring to wait, we hurried towards the nearest exit and left the Zoo, but with mixed feelings.  Saddened, certainly, but delighted that Toosie would be happy and that we had presented her after all.

CHAPTER 3
SNAKE IN A BOOT

The years passed and we grew from small boys to big boys.  Our parents had wisely chosen to send us to separate boarding and public schools, George to Wrekin College, John to Abbotsholme.  In due course we reached the manly age of eighteen and just before leaving school for the last time, George joined John and a party of Abbotsholme boys to go for a walk.  It was not just a walk over the fields and back again; Abbotsholme did things on a much grander and more adventurous scale.  This walk was to cover about 150 miles across Germany from Freiburg to Oberammergau to watch a performance of the Passion Play.  That gave us a taste of travel, a most agreeable taste; we saw our first palm trees, we had our first view of snow-covered mountains and we spotted our first foreign birds, a crested tit and a flock of Alpine choughs.
With schooldays now behind us we had to consider our future and for a time Edward helped us to run a bookshop in Highgate, but we still longed to go abroad again, somewhere tropical; India would do nicely, or Africa, or the Far East.  The only problem of course was money.
On one of our days off we happened to be in Camden Town on our way to the Zoo when it started raining heavily, so we took shelter in the nearest doorway.  This led into an Army Recruiting Centre and through the window we saw a large poster:  JOIN THE ARMY AND SEE THE WORLD.  What a good idea, we both thought aloud.  If we joined the army we would be paid for going abroad, so money would no longer be a problem.  But Mother might.
That evening we discussed the idea of an army career with the whole family and to our surprise Mother agreed.  “It would be nice to have a couple of generals in the family”, she explained.  Our plan was generally approved but then Edward made a suggestion.
“Why not one of you join up first and if you like it, the other one can sell the bookshop and join up too.”
Everyone agreed that that was a sensible idea and Edward immediately pulled out a coin from his pocket.
“If it lands heads, John joins; tails, George”.  Fair enough, we thought and up went the coin.  We both rushed to have a look.
“It’s tails!” George yelled, highly elated, John confirmed it but examined the coin carefully, hoping to find a flaw.  In the end he had to concede.
A few weeks later we returned to that Army Recruiting Centre and after some discussion with a friendly sergeant, George enlisted into the Queen’s Own Royal West Kent Regiment.  We were born in Beckenham, Kent, so that was a good reason for selecting that regiment, but more important still, the sergeant had told him the Regiment had a battalion in India and if George volunteered to serve overseas, he would be posted to India.
So began a military career for George, followed a few months later by John.  Even so, it was another two years before we were both posted at last to India, country of our dreams.  We were stationed in a very dry and desolate area with temperatures up to 100F and over, so animal life was not teeming in the countryside; however, during our free time we went for long walks and on occasions we saw deer and monkeys.  Jackals we heard most nights and civet cats lived in the roof of our barracks.  Striped squirrels were everywhere.
The commonest birds were black kites, literally hundreds of them, attracted by the food in storehouses and kitchens.  If you carried a plate of food from the kitchen to the dining room which meant a short walk outside, you had to hold your hand over the plate otherwise the kites would swoop down and grab the lot!
Lizards were quite common but snakes were seldom seen.  It was several months before we spotted our first snake on one of our walks and nearly a year before we managed to catch one.  It was very small, less than a foot long, but we decided to keep it for a couple of days and then release it at the same spot where we found it.  Of course no pets were allowed so we had to be careful.
“Why not keep it in one of our spare boots?” suggested George.
“Not a bad idea,” commented John, “and we could stuff a sock in the opening and the holes for the laces would provide it with plenty of air.”
For the moment though it went into our pocket and on our return to our barrack room nobody even suspected a snake in their midst.  We waited until the troops went into tea before we transferred the snake into a boot where it went straight into the toe, curled up and presumably went to sleep, blissfully unaware that it had joined the army.  George replaced the boot into a cupboard.  Minutes later, the first soldier returned, followed by the remainder.  Then a sergeant-major walked in.
“Pay attention, you lot.  There’ll be a kit inspection termorrow, eight o’clock sharp.  Got it?”  His voice had a hint of a sneer, presumably because he would not be involved.  A kit inspection meant that every article of clothing and every piece of equipment has to be laid out on the bed in a particular fashion; the clothes, neatly folded to certain measurements, hair brush and bootbrushes thoroughly scrubbed to look as though they were new.  We twins got round that chore by having new ones specially for kit inspections.
We did have our own private problem though in the shape of a snake.  It was too late to release it, but at least it would have the honour of being the first snake in the history of the British Army to take part in a kit inspection.
At eight o’clock sharp the next morning the inspecting officer walked into the room smartly.  Fortunately he was a second lieutenant, the lowest of officer ranks.  Even more fortunately, he was a brand new officer and had only been in India a few days, not even long enough to acquire a tan.  We thought it unlikely he would notice a sock stuffed down into a boot.
The officer moved down the line of beds, stopping at the foot of each one.  He clearly wanted to show how frightfully efficient he was and therefore picked up one or two items from each bed, examining them critically.  Many of the troops were old hands and had been in India for several years.  They well knew how to impress an inspecting officer; this one could find no fault.
At length he reached George’s bed.  He glanced at George, then at John next door and raised an eyebrow.  After surveying the kit on George’s bed he picked up one of his boot brushes.
“Now that’s what I like to see,” he remarked, “You’ve scrubbed it so thoroughly it’s as good as new”.  It was new but George did not enlighten him, “I trust your boots are equally satisfactory” he continued, picking up one of them; THE one.
We feared the worst, our brains working like mad for a solution should he find the snake.
“That’s what I like to see,” he said as he peered at the boot.  “Well done, you’ve put some really hard work into that.  Jolly good show!”
He was about to discover that some really hard work was not the only thing that had gone into the boot.  As he turned it upside down to examine the sole, the sock fell out.  So did the snake.
“Good Lord!” he cried out.
“Good heavens!” said George.
“Good gracious!” added John.
“It’s a cobra”, went on the officer stepping back, “it has to be a cobra!”
“No, sir, it is not a cobra, sir”, George intervened, hoping to calm him down.  “It is known as a racer which is quite harmless.  My brother and I have studied snakes, sir and this is certainly a young racer, judging from its size.  You quite often find snakes in your boots out here, sir.”
“And scorpions”, John added for good measure, hoping to start a discussion on natural history.  We both wanted to calm him down so that he would not think of asking why George had not discovered the snake when he laid out his boots for inspection.  More than anything, we wanted him to move on to the next bed and carry on inspecting.
“Very well,” he said at last.  “I’ll let you get rid of that snake.  Take it out into the countryside miles away.”
He was still shaking and as he did carry on with his inspection, we both noticed he spent far less time at each bed and picked up nothing at all.  His pace was much brisker too and he was obviously relieved when he eventually left the room.  Most of the troops too were relieved when we picked up the snake and returned it to its boot.  Later that day we released it in its original home out in the countryside.

CHAPTER 4
REFUGE IN A RIFLE

Soon after the incident of the snake another brush with authority occurred, due entirely to the high regard we had for the smaller creatures of this earth.  This time it was a small and insignificant spider of unknown make.  John first noticed it crawling up his rifle whilst he was on sentry duty outside the guard room.  He watched it climb up the butt, past the trigger guard and right up the woodwork of the barrel to the very top where it paused for a moment.  Perhaps it was thinking what a peculiar shaped tree it had just ascended.  Then it discovered the tree was hollow and disappeared straight down into the barrel
John thereupon came to the conclusion that his rifle barrel was an eminently suitable place in which to keep the spider.  It would mean of course that he would be unable to clean his rifle in the proper manner which involves attaching a small piece of material to a long cord weighted at one end, dropping the weight into the barrel and then pulling the cord plus the material right through the barrel from one end to the other.  This effectively removes any dirt or dust and it has to be done daily.  Rifle inspections are carried out frequently by senior ranks and woe betide anyone found with a dirty rifle.  John realised the risk he was taking by not cleaning his rifle, but with a spider down the barrel he felt it was his duty not to harm it.  After all, even a spider must have feelings.  It fact it proved it had for every now and again it emerged from the top of the barrel, took a breath of fresh air, so to speak and disappeared again inside its adopted home.
So there it lived very peacefully until the inevitable happened; a rifle inspection.  It was held two days later and conducted by a particular sergeant-major who had a reputation for finding even a tiny speck of dust in a rifle barrel.  John was lined up together with about 20 other troops and the sergeant-major went dawn the line inspecting each rifle in turn.  It takes a little time; as he draws level with each man, that man has to thrust his rifle forward at an angle, the inspector then holds the end of the barrel up to his eye and peers down it.  As John stood near the far end of the line he had time to think but could think of nothing.  Any move on his part was bound to attract the attention of the sergeant-major, so he resigned himself to his fate and all for the sake of a spider.
At length his turn came and he thrust his rifle forward to be inspected.  All might have been well if the spider had flattened itself against the side of the barrel whilst the sergeant-major looked down into it from the muzzle end.  But no; it had to choose that particular moment to walk out for a breath of fresh air.
For an instant the spider and the sergeant-major came face to face, eye to eye, really, for the spider could have stepped neatly on to the sergeant-major’s eye-lash.  It didn’t have a chance for that unbelieving sergeant-major very quickly removed his face, which was rapidly turning a deep shade of purple.  He exploded.
It is not recorded whether that explosion blew the spider straight back into the barrel again and out at the bottom end, but it vanished in a flash; and the stream of language that followed was a remarkable lesson in the use of unfamiliar adjectives during which John heard himself described in picturesque terms.  Of one thing he was certain; he would be charged there and then and would have to face the charge the following morning.  He guessed he would be sentenced to seven days confined to barracks.  He guessed rightly.
It should be explained that any soldier who commits an offence faces a charge and is likely to be punished in one form or another.  Seven days confined to barracks is a fairly normal sentence and it means that the soldier is forbidden not only to leave the barracks when off duty but to have any free time to enjoy himself within the barracks.  Instead, he has to perform all kinds of tiresome and distasteful jobs such as peeling a mountain of potatoes or polishing all the kitchen pots and pans, or scrubbing out miles of drains and gutters.
We twins, however, had other ideas, simply because we were twins and identical twins at that.  If, therefore, one of us was sentenced to seven days CB, as it was called, we had our own unique way of dealing with it; he would perform the various tasks allotted to him for the first four days and his twin brother would stand in for him for the last three days.  It was a perfectly simple solution which never failed, mainly because nobody ever dared to question us for fear of questioning the wrong one and being made to look foolish.
There was one glorious and memorable occasion.  George had been sentenced to seven days CB for some trivial offence.  Unfortunately he had arranged to visit a local cinema that evening with a friend, so John agreed to stand in for him that first day.
So it came about that John lined up with a number of other men sentenced.  Before allotting them their various jobs, the sergeant-major inspected them.
It was when he found himself facing John that he looked worried.
“Right, Newmark,” he growled, “now listen ‘ere.  I don’t want yer trying on any of yer funny tricks with me ‘cos I’m warning yer, I can tell you two apart even if nobody else can.  So just watch yer step and don’t try swopping over with yer brother.”  He was quite unaware we had already swopped over!
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” said John.  Neither twin ever lost any sleep over it and neither twin ever dreamt about it.  Their care and concern over wildlife, even down to the smallest spider, was all that mattered.

CHAPTER 5
MEET MR.  NG

We spent two glorious years in India before our Regiment moved to Palestine, where we had our first taste of active service.  This lasted for one and a half years until the Regiment again moved, this time to Malta.  Soon afterwards World War II broke out and our lives changed course.  George was sent back to Britain to train other troops, then he went to France, was shot in the chest, captured and spent the next five years as a prisoner of war.  John was also sent back to Britain where he was commissioned, then he went to Normandy where he too was captured and spent the last eight months of the war in a prison camp not so very far from George’s camp.  So John wrote a letter to Hitler asking for George to be transferred to his own camp, but Hitler never replied.  He probably had a lot on his mind.
At length the war ended and we each returned home from our prisoner of war camps, arriving, after five years separation, within one hour of each other! We certainly had some incredible tales to tell but that’s another story.
Now we had to think about the rest of our lives.  We still had an urge to travel and we still hoped to satisfy that childhood urge to present animals to London Zoo.  By a stroke of good fortune George was asked if he would like to transfer to the Malayan Police Force.  He consulted John and within a month he found himself in Malaya, (now called West Malaysia.)  About a year later he sent a one-word telegram to John:  ‘Come,’  John immediately sent a one-word telegram back:  ‘Coming.’  He then packed his bags, said goodbye to the rest of the family and joined his brother in Malaya who told him there were many jobs being advertised for ex-servicemen.  It was not long before he secured a job as Welfare Officer on an iron mine deep in the jungle, looking after the 2,000 Chinese workforce and their families.  Luckily Malaya was blessed with a generous number of bank holidays, so both twins were able to stay with each other from time to time.
It was during a bank holiday that we were staying together in George’s house in Muar in the State of Johore and we were enjoying a very English breakfast, poached eggs on toast, cooked for them by Beng.  Chiew Boon Beng, to give him his full name, was George’s cook-mechanic; he could certainly cook better than George who couldn’t cook at all and he was a superb motor mechanic.  He was also a very pleasant young man who was willing and able to put his hand to anything, even to holding snakes and lizards which was rather necessary when he accompanied George on his snake hunting trips.
John was about to stab his poached egg with a fork when the telephone rang.  George picked up the receiver.  Mr. Ng was on the other end; he owned a pet shop in Singapore and knew George well.  His voice was nervous, trembling.
“Come quick, Mr. George.  I have box of snakes and am velly velly aflaid.  Box inside shop, I stay outside.  Snakes velly velly poisonous, I wait for you.”
As far as Mr. Ng was concerned, all snakes were velly velly poisonous and he was always velly velly aflaid, but he had promised to let George know if he ever had any snakes brought to him.
“Alright, Mr. Ng, I’ll be there as soon as possible,” George assured him.
Singapore was about 100 miles away so we would take about three hours.
“Beng, have the car ready in five minutes.  You drive my brother and me to Singapore.  Right?”
“Car ready now,” he answered, “but we stop for petrol, then go fast.”
Our breakfast went down fast as well.  We collected two pairs of tough leather gloves and a large pillowcase.  We had no idea how many snakes were in the box, nor whether they were venomous or non-venomous, nor whether we even wanted them; but we did not want Mr. Ng to spend the rest of the day sitting on the pavement outside his shop.
The morning was cool and pleasant; it generally is until about nine thirty or ten o’clock when it really becomes hot and humid and remains so until late afternoon.  By the time we reached Singapore it was already uncomfortable so we were glad to pull up outside Mr. Ng’s pet shop and there was Mr. Ng, highly agitated until he spotted us stepping out of the car.  His face broke into a beam as wide as a window.
“Snakes in box inside shop,” he quaked as he handed George the keys. “I velly aflaid so I stay here.”
He didn’t; he moved further along the pavement in ease a snake slithered from the box and made for the door.  We asked Beng to remain in the car in case somebody else wanted it.  Then we unlocked the door and entered.  We could see a wooden crate about the size of a coffee table at one end, a double piece of small mesh wire netting covered a hole cut in the side of the box and on closer inspection we could see a tangle of snakes inside.  It was difficult to count them as their coils wound around each other, but they appeared to be of one species which we recognized as the very beautiful Black and Gold Tree Snake, a venomous species but not dangerous.  Their fangs are small and situated far back in the mouth.  We levered open the lid and beheld four or five snakes beginning slowly to uncoil; we judged them to be about four feet in length and were apparently in fairly good condition, so we decided to buy the lot.
While George went out to collect Mr. Ng, John closed the lid and sat on it to encourage Mr. Ng and assure him the snakes were perfectly safe.
Still trembling, Mr. Ng entered behind George.  At the sight of John actually sitting on the box, he calmed down considerably and his business instincts returned.  After all, he was there to sell animals.  George had evidently told him we were prepared to buy the snakes.
“I sell you snakes velly cheap,” he said, standing a safe distance from the box.  “Flee dollars each.  Velly cheap, velly cheap,” he repeated.
“Three dollars each?” we queried, looking suitably shocked.  We knew perfectly well that Mr. Ng would have gladly given us three dollars to take them away and he knew it too, but it is the Chinese custom to bargain over a price.  However, Mr. Ng was still ill-at-ease in the presence of the snakes and we had no wish to prolong his agony.
“One dollar each,” George announced in a tone indicating the bargaining was over.  Mr. Ng was thoroughly satisfied.  In his opinion, snakes were not only unspeakable, they were also unsaleable and yet he had managed to sell them all.
We put on our leather gloves, opened the lid of the box, held the pillow ease open and gently grasped the first snake, lifting it from the tangle of coils.  Mr. Ng had already vanished out of sight.  The snake offered little resistance as we manoeuvred it into the pillowslip.  They may have been in the box for several days and were beyond caring.  Each one allowed itself to be transferred; there were five altogether, but one was in poor shape and we did not expect it to survive.  Even so, we took it with us in a separate bag we found.  Next we tied it and the pillowcase securely at the openings.  Finally we splashed water we found in a bucket to give them a good damping; most snakes can go for long periods without food but they do like to be kept damp from time to time.
As we stepped out of the shop we saw Mr. Ng still shaking on the pavement but he brightened up instantly when he saw us carrying the snakes and was overjoyed when we handed him the dollars.
“Thank you velly velly much, you buy snakes velly velly cheap.  I no like snakes, I only like dollars,” he said as he burst out laughing, relieved beyond words that he could open his shop again.
It was now late morning but we decided to go straight back home despite the heat and humidity; we were anxious to transfer the snakes into something more suitable and provide them with comfortable surroundings.  Three hours later we were able to do this and we presented each snake with an egg.  It was some time before they realized that there was food for them, though sadly the one snake in poor condition died that night.  The others however made a quick recovery and within a few days were looking beautifully sleek and shiny.
In addition to these four, we found another six snakes of three different species and Beng found two more close to the house.  So we now had a dozen snakes which would make a very nice parcel for Mr. Lanworn, overseer of the Reptile House at London Zoo.  Each snake would be confined to a cotton bag tied and sealed at the top; each bag would be attached to a hook screwed in around the top of a specially constructed box; and large printed ‘THIS SIDE UP’ notices were stuck over the box with arrows showing the upper side.  All they would require on the aircraft would be an occasional damping.
There was one final performance to go through before we could deliver the box to the airport.  Airlines would not accept livestock unless it had been declared and certified as fit.  That meant taking the box of snakes to the Veterinary Department, which was a nuisance, but there was no way round it.  Cats and dogs and rabbits are constantly travelling with their owners and they all have to visit the vet and be certified as fit and healthy.  We would have to wait and see exactly how the vet would decide whether a snake had chicken-pox or just a headache or whatever.
We found the Veterinary Department housed in a not very imposing building and the door badly in need of a coat of paint.  We knocked and entered.  An Indian gentleman wearing a grey turban and a beard to match rose from his chair and greeted us politely.
“Good morneeng, gentlemen, please seet down.”
“Good morning,” we replied.  John placed the box of snakes between our chairs.
“I teenk you have a pet cat or dog for me to look at?” queried the vet.
“No, nothing quite so ordinary,” George said in a casual tone, “only some livestock for the London Zoo.”
“London Zoo?  That sounds eenteresteeng.  What kind of livestock have you?” he asked, rising from his chair.
“Oh, just a few snakes,” said George as he lifted the box and placed it on the table.
The Indian gentleman quickly sat down again.  His beard was quivering.
“They are not very large and none of them are dangerous,” George continued, pretending to fiddle with the catch. “Each one is in a bag and each bag is securely sealed.  Do you want to see them?”
“I don’t teenk that will be necessary,” he whispered, trying to remain calm.  “I teenk all your snakes will be in excellent good health.  I am verry verry happy to geeve you a certeeficate.  Just wait one moment pleece.”
He wrote with a shaking hand, obviously anxious to get rid of us and handed the document to George.
“Goodbye, both of you,” he said as he shook our hands, “and eef you want to send more snakes to London Zoo, pleece just telephone me and I will send you the certificate through the post.  That will be verry verry seemple and will make me verry verry happy.”
It made us verry verry happy as well.

CHAPTER 6
SNOOKER BALL WITH LEGS

By the end of the 1950s we were both back in England, George after twelve years in Malaya, John after varying periods in Malaya, Australia and Kenya.  We were also both involved in teaching and both anxious to travel abroad to collect reptiles and insects for presentation to London Zoo.  The long school holidays allowed us to do this.
Thus in April 1959 the scene was set for us to begin the first of our collecting trips which were to continue, year after year, for a quarter of a century at the rate of one a year.  Our first trip was to a semi-desert habitat in a semi-tropical country, Morocco.  Our aim was simple and straightforward: to collect a number of small animals, bring them back with us on the plane and present them to London Zoo.  That ruled out ever having to catch a ten metre python or a hippopotamus.  After all, we would be on holiday.  We certainly hoped to catch some snakes and other reptiles as well as amphibians and a nice assortment of invertebrates, thereby helping to keep the Reptile House and the Insect House at London Zoo well stocked.  This first trip then would set the guide lines for all the other trips.
Our holidays generally lasted for two or three weeks and we decided to spend the first several days locating the haunts of the animals we hoped to capture and leave the actual capture until nearer the end of the holiday.  That would save a lot of time having to house them and feed them and generally care for them.  We had brought with us in our luggage about 50 plastic boxes of various shapes and sizes, plus elastic bands to keep the lids on, sticky tape to ensure they stayed on and labels denoting their contents even though most of them were transparent, but then labels added a professional touch.
We also brought a number of cloth shoe bags, ideal for holding a snake or two.  Once a snake enters a bag it quite sensibly goes straight to the bottom, coils itself into a comfortable ball and goes straight to sleep.
Apart from anything else, many snakes like to be kept damp and it is very easy to splash a little water over a cloth bag.
Other items of equipment we carried included a pair of strong leather gloves.  One never knows what is lurking beneath rocks and boulders and dead or rotting tree trunks.  Snakes, scorpions, centipedes and others all resent fingers poking around their hide-outs.  However, gloves are not bite-proof or sting-proof but they help.
Came the day when we really started collecting in earnest.  Having spied out the land, we knew exactly where to go; an area of waste ground on the outskirts of Marrakech was home to several lizards, turtles could be found in numerous streams and waterways, a rocky outcrop a mile away was the chosen domain of scorpions and so on.  Our forays over the first few days were well worth the effort, though catching the creatures required even more effort and energy than finding them.
Our collection grew daily and our plastic boxes filled up faster than we had expected, so we decided to release some of the animals into the bathroom.  Several Moroccan toads together with a turtle went into the bath where they could really stretch their legs; a few flat rocks provided them with resting places from which they could admire their surroundings.  The large deep hand basin with steep sides gave our lizards room to exercise and slithers of bark provided them with a comfortable carpet.  A fine pair of Algerian skinks made merry in the bidet, not always found in English bathrooms.  The top of the rim curved inwards and prevented the skinks wandering off outwards.  Some of the snakes slept soundly in their bags and these we hung in decorous abandon from the towel rails, whilst another bag containing a solitary gecko was suspended from the lavatory chain.
We were out early most mornings, so to ensure the maids with their mops and buckets never entered the bathroom, we placed a large ‘Engaged’ notice on the door.  On one occasion we both happened to be in when two maids arrived, so we warned them we had seen a snake in there; they left rapidly without even doing the bedroom!  Fortunately it was not a five-star hotel; two-star possibly.
During our final weekend we filled the remaining containers with the more lowly creatures of this earth; desert beetles, oil beetles, scarab beetles, desert scorpions, mole crickets, long-horned grasshoppers and other grasshoppery objects, plus a few specimens we could not identify.  At length we were reduced to just one empty container, a test-tube.
“We can’t put much in that,” remarked George.
John thought for a moment.  “Maybe we’ll find a colourful spider; Mr. Ashby told us he could do with one or two new species.”  Mr. Ashby was in charge of the Insect House and a professional entomologist.
We went to work immediately, turning over dead logs and small boulders by the dozen.  There were plenty of spiders but all dull and drab.  One large rock required both of us to lift it on to its edge and we both called out together.
“There’s one!”
It was partly hidden in a crevice but we could see its rather distinctive body which was jet black and circular, almost like a marble.
“I suppose it is a spider,” George queried, “though I can’t see any legs.”
“Maybe it’s a pebble,” suggested John, “though somehow I suspect it has eight legs hidden away underneath.  If it is a spider we might be able to coax it out gently with a stick.  Anyway, let’s try.”
It would be a delicate operation and we both removed our gloves.  John found a small twig and inserted it very slowly and carefully between the body and the edge of the crevice which crumbled slightly, while George held his cupped hand just below the spider in case it fell out with some of the crumbling rock.  John manoeuvred the twig a little further in and gently tickled its tummy.  One leg emerged.  John began to lever it out.
“Keep your hand there,” he called to George.  “I’m going to give it a light flick.  Ready?”
“Right”, George replied.
As John was about to flick it out, a second leg appeared, then a third.  It looked as though the spider was about to walk out and indeed it did, straight into George’s hand, a beautiful shiny black ball with eight legs.  We both stared at it, wondering what sort of spider it was.
“Just hold it for a moment whilst I find the test-tube,” said George and passed it from his hand into the palm of his brother’s hand.  It landed on its back and for the first time we saw it had a bright splash of scarlet on its underside.
“Oh!” we both remarked, somewhat surprised and highly delighted.
George produced the test-tube and a wad of cotton wool to insert in the top once the spider was inside.  It was quite easy to place the open end over the spider, legs included and with a dead leaf John encouraged it to move off his hand and into the tube.  The cotton wool kept it there.
Now safely in the test-tube we were able to admire it from all angles.
“I’m fairly sure I’ve read about this spider somewhere,” John admitted, “but can’t remember where.”
“I believe the Zoo had one years ago,” commented George, “and anyway Mr. Ashby is sure to know it.  Can’t wait to hand over all our loot!”
Handing over our ‘loot’ was a moment we both looked forward to with growing excitement and that moment occurred on the Monday afternoon when we finally arrived at London Zoo.  There were two moments, actually.  The first was in the Reptile House when Mr. Reginald Lanworn, Head Keeper of reptiles, took possession of our specimens.  These included a viperine snake, two Algerian snakes, two southern smooth snakes, two Montpellier snakes, skinks, lizards, toads and a turtle.  We did wonder at first whether we had left the gecko behind in its bag hanging from the lavatory chain, but it turned up later when we handed over the invertebrates to Mr. Ashby.
He received his share with obvious pleasure and proceeded to examine each and every specimen with a professional eye.  Being an entomologist, he gave Latin names to most of the beetles and scorpions.  It was when he came to the test-tube that he became really excited.
“My goodness!” he exclaimed.  “A Latrodectus!  Just what we wanted.  We haven’t had one of these for some time.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” declared John.
“I’m glad we found it,” George added.
Mr. Ashby continued to enthuse.  “Any Latrodectus goes down well with the public; they generally scream with horror when they see one of these.”
“Oh,” said George, “when we first saw it we gave it a name!  Cynthia.”
Of course Mr. Ashby knew exactly what he was talking about; we being amateurs hadn’t a clue and didn’t know what was so special about this spider.  To us it looked like a tiny snooker ball with legs.
We watched in silence as Mr. Ashby moved over to a cupboard on the wall and extracted a pair of tweezers about the length of a carving knife.
“Better use these,” he cautioned, pointing the tweezers at us.
Picking up the test-tube he first removed the wad of cotton wool from the opening, then inserted the tweezers and grabbed a leg.  Finally with a deft movement he transferred the spider to a larger container and snapped the lid down with a sigh of relief.
“I don’t fancy a Latrodectus too close to my bare hands,” he said with a nervous chuckle.  “It’s one of the Black Widow family; you probably know they are all very poisonous.”
We did know.  Everyone knows that a Black Widow spider is poisonous, one of the most venomous in the world, but until this moment we did not know that our snooker ball was a member of the Black Widow family.
We looked at one another in shocked silence.  This was the spider for which we had deliberately removed our gloves in order to entice it from its hole in the rock.  This was the spider we had held in our bare hands and passed to each other.  This was the spider we lovingly called Cynthia.
So why were we not bitten?  Presumably because we handled it with such care, as we always do with any animal, that it had no reason to inject either of us with venom.  Even so, we always wore gloves in later years when we caught more Black Widows, as we did in Florida.

CHAPTER 7
AN EMPEROR COMES TO TEA

To celebrate our fiftieth birthday, we decided to visit the nearest patch of jungle to Baker St., London and a quick look at an atlas indicated an area of tropical rain forest some 3,000 miles away in West Africa.  We had never been there, so that in itself was a very good reason to go, but unfortunately we had no relatives living in that part of the world upon whom we could descend for our board and lodging.  However, Edward, our elder brother, knew a family who lived in Ghana and after a number of polite letters to and fro, we were invited to stay with them for a couple of weeks.  In the meantime we visited the London Zoo to learn if there were any reptiles and insects they wanted, or did not want.  There are certain snakes, for example, which feed exclusively on other snakes and we had no wish to bring back any snake-eating snakes, thereby giving the Head Keeper a permanent headache.
We did learn, however, that he would dearly like a Royal python or two, whilst the Insect House would welcome with open arms a few rhinoceros beetles and a small number of Imperial scorpions, the world’s largest.
“We’ll do our best,” we assured them without making any promises; after all, animals do not just give themselves up when requested and snakes cannot hear anyway so it would be no good asking them.
We would be lucky to find a royal python, but at least they are manageable, growing to four or five feet; other varieties of pythons can reach twenty feet and beyond and twenty feet of snake would undoubtedly present problems.  We would be staying with a family we had never met and they might disapprove of a twenty foot snake sharing their house with them.
The day of departure came.  The nine-hour flight to Accra was uneventful and we landed at the airport as the sun was setting in a deep orange glow.
The Customs officers were a little suspicious when they inspected our baggage and found about 60 empty plastic boxes, but we explained the purpose of our visit and they allowed us through.
There we met our hosts; Professor Alan May who worked in his physics laboratory in the University of Ghana; his wife, Dr.  Hilda May who tended those in need of medical attention; and Johnny May, eight years old, who immediately offered his services as guide around Africa.  After the introductions we were driven to their home in the grounds of the University, but it was already dark so Johnny was unable to show us Africa.
Early the next morning he did guide us to our first capture in their garden; a colony of brilliant red spidery-looking creatures we saw scurrying over the ground.  They looked like small blobs of red velvet and indeed felt velvety as we picked up a dozen and placed them in a plastic box.
“Do you know what they are?” we asked Johnny.
He scratched his head.  “I’ve forgotten, but come with me,” he replied and led as to the home of another professor in the Zoology department a few minutes walk away.
The professor himself opened the door to us.  “Hullo Johnny.  What have you brought me this time?”  He was evidently used to the boy bringing him specimens to be identified.
Johnny ended him the box.
“Oh, mites,” he remarked, laughing. “They are quite common around here, especially after rain.  Feed them on paper, tissue paper if you have any.  They thrive on that.”
“Thank you very much,” we twins called out as we retraced our steps back.  We did indeed feed them with tissue paper.  We had brought several packets with us for it is useful for lining boxes containing spiders and grasshoppery objects.  And sure enough, the mites throve.
The morning was spent in a leisurely stroll round the neighbourhood.  Several large bungalows with spacious gardens dotted the grounds of the University, evidently the homes of the senior Staff and we felt privileged to be living in such august company.  We were to meet some of them, or at least their wives, that afternoon for a garden tea party had been arranged, a kind of Welcome to Ghana party at which we would be the star attractions.  It was a thoughtful gesture on the part of the Mays and we appreciated it, even though we longed to start reconnoitering for good collecting areas.
So it came about that we found ourselves on display amidst a throng of ladies in their summery frocks and large brimmed hats, sipping tea daintily on the terrace.  Everybody knew everybody, apart from us, but at least we twins knew each other and we could sense that we were being discussed and compared in polite undertones; not that it bothered us as we were used to it.
Alan had seated himself within reach of one of the plates of sandwiches and chatted politely with a lady in pink.  Hilda had made herself responsible for replenishing the tea cups of the guests and Johnny had been entrusted to pass the sandwiches around the moment he spotted an empty plate.  He had hoped to sit as near as possible to the table with the cakes, but we had already grabbed those seats.  As far as we are concerned, tea parties are to be endured only as long as the cakes last; once they have gone, we like to go too and we were already wondering how to manage a polite withdrawal.  As it happened, there was no need to; the guests withdrew first.
Hilda was discussing the flowering trees and shrubs in the garden when one of the guests suddenly exclaimed, “Oh!” in a note of alarm and pointed to the floor of the terrace under one of the tables.
“Oh!” echoed several more ladies as they looked in that direction.
“Oh!” we both shouted in a note of sheer joy and delight.  “Just what we wanted, an Imperial scorpion!”
As the guests departed en masse and beat a hasty retreat into the house by way of the French windows, George disappeared equally fast by another route and returned with one of our large plastic boxes.  John in the meantime had selected a thin table mat from under a plate.   Neither Johnny nor Alan had joined the ladies to seek safety indoors; Alan took the precaution of raising his feet on to the nearest chair and calmly helped himself to another sandwich, whilst Johnny, anticipating our next move, turned to John.
“Can I help you catch it?” he asked.
John looked at his pleading eyes.  “Of course you can,” he said, “but only if Dad approves.”
Alan did approve but cautioned the boy to follow our instructions.  We were ready for action.  Furthermore, we had an audience.  All the guests had a perfect view from several windows.  The scorpion had not moved from its chosen spot under the table immediately in front of the French windows, no doubt feeling secure there, so we felt it was highly important to make a success of our first major capture, especially as Johnny was involved.  The stage was set.
George removed the lid from the plastic box and handed it to Johnny. 
“Hang on to this,” he told him, “and wait till John is ready for you.”
The twins had caught many scorpions before and knew exactly what to do, even though this was quite the largest they had ever seen, fully six inches or 15cm. from end to end.  We all knelt down on three sides of the table, leaving the fourth side open for the benefit of the audience.  We moved very slowly; a sharp or sudden movement would have frightened the creature and sent it scurrying off to seek shelter elsewhere.  George now held the plastic box as high as it was possible under the table, open end facing downwards directly over the scorpion and very, very slowly lowered it to the floor, trapping the animal within.  Even now, because it could see through the box, it didn’t realise it was captured, but its curved tail moved a little, no doubt ready to pierce a toe or a finger within reach.  We were wearing gloves, of course, so perhaps it didn’t recognize a nice juicy finger holding the box.
“How can I put the lid on?” asked Johnny, anxious to play his part.
“I’ll show you in a minute,” John assured him, “but first I have to slide this table mat under the box and use it as a temporary lid.  Then it will be your turn.”
The boy watched with interest as the twins performed this rather delicate operation.  John placed the edge of the mat against the edge of the box whilst George lifted that edge just enough to allow his brother to slip the mat into the opening.  Gradually the mat was pushed further in until it reached the scorpion’s huge black claws.  The moment it touched them the animal exploded into action and tried to escape by climbing up the inside of the box.  The twins expected this; George raised the whole box a fraction and John was able to push the table mat right through to the other end, just as the scorpion, unable to grip the smooth surface, fell back on to the mat. 
So far, so good, but the box was still upside down and still without a permanent and secure lid.
John turned to the boy.  “Right, Johnny, this is where you come in.
I am going to turn the box the right way up, holding the mat firmly in place.  Then I shall tell you what to do.  Ready?”
“I’m ready,” he replied, his voice quivering slightly.
John now grabbed both the box and the mat in his two hands and turned them over together slowly and gently, not wishing to infuriate the scorpion still more.  It too found itself upside down but quickly righted itself and made another attempt to climb up inside, but without success.
“Johnny, I want you now to hold the lid over the mat so that when I remove the mat by sliding it sideways, yon allow the lid to sink into its place.  It fits in tightly so make sure it is tight all round.  Remember, do everything slowly.  Alright?”
“Yes,” he announced, this time quite firmly.
Almost imperceptibly John began to slide the mat off the top of the box until one edge was clear.  Johnny immediately slipped in the edge of his lid, ensuring no gap remained and in slow motion as the table mat was slid across the opening, so Johnny filled it with the lid which finally fitted neatly in place.
“Well done,” said John when the operation was complete.  “Now hold the box firmly with both hands, thumbs on the lid and George will secure it with an elastic band.”
“I shall do no such thing,” George announced haughtily.  “I shall secure it with three elastic bands and some tape.”
In the meantime the Professor had been taking a keen interest in the whole affair and was obviously impressed.  He gave the all-clear to the guests who now scrambled back into the garden to congratulate all concerned, not least with Johnny who now declared himself an experienced collector.
We twins were delighted.  Not only had we captured our first Imperial scorpion and on our first afternoon in Ghana, but we now had a first class excuse to leave the gathering, assuring everybody that we would prowl around the garden to make sure there were no more scorpions lurking in the bushes.  We collected a couple of plastic boxes from our room and then headed for the farthest corner with Johnny in tow and almost immediately found another one.  Fortunately we were out of sight and as we had no table mats to use as a lid, we simply scooped up the creature together with some earth and quickly clamped the lid down over it.  We decided to keep it a secret, not wanting the guests to leave with the impression that the May’s garden was full of scorpions.  Only after the last guest had left did we tell Hilda and Alan.
“By the time you two go home,” said Hilda, laughing, “I don’t think there will be a single scorpion left in Ghana!”
We did in fact collect ten altogether, though not all in her garden.

CHAPTER 8
BEETLES IN THE BEDROOM

“Would you like to spend a night in the forest?” asked Hilda one evening as we were discussing plans for our last few days.
Our replies were simultaneous.  “That would be gorgeous,” cried one of us in a high pitched voice.  “That would be heavenly,” yelled the other one in a voice pitched higher still.
“I’ll have a word with Alan when he comes home from the lab,” Hilda went on.  I’m sure we could arrange to drop you there one morning and pick you up the next day.  Would that be alright?”
“You could leave us there for a month,” suggested George, laughing, “only we are booked to fly home next week.  Besides, your cooking would tempt us back anyway after one night without it.”
“I don’t suppose there is a branch of Sainsbury’s in the forest, is there?” queried John, jokingly.
Hilda:  “Don’t worry about food; we’ll get there in time for lunch so you won’t need an evening meal.  We happen to know the caretaker of the rest-house where you will be staying and he is a very good cook.  He will also give you breakfast the next morning.”
And so the trip was arranged for the day after tomorrow.  This gave us plenty of time to organize a good supply of containers and to prepare some of the larger ones which we had earmarked specifically for rhinoceros beetles.
We had learnt from the Entomology Department that these beetles may be found in forested areas and generally start flying around dusk.  In the daytime they like to hide in dead or rotten wood.  So we collected several slices of dead bark and cut them to fit snugly into the base of each box, thereby furnishing them with wall to wall carpeting, as it were.  Over this we sprinkled loosely shavings and small fragments of wood, best quality of course, to a depth of about an inch and a half, beneath which the beetles could bury themselves and feel secure.  Strips of bark lined the sides to shut out any bright lights.
Other boxes we lined with tissue paper, twigs and dead leaves.  This was likely to be the only occasion when we felt confident we would find some rhinoceros beetles, having been disappointed earlier when we learnt that they are not found in the University grounds nor for many miles around.  We had in fact more or less given them up for good.
Came the day of departure and we twins could not have been more excited as we drove through the changing zones of vegetation: grassland merging into savanna, then bush and finally the forest itself.  We have always considered the rain forest to be our favourite habitat whether it is in Africa, Asia or South America and here we were, once again experiencing the delights and thrills and surprises that any jungle anywhere has in store.  Even a colobus monkey leaping from branch to branch in the canopy reminds us that we really are in deepest darkest Africa, albeit driving along a good tarmac road.
A few miles further on we veered off along a secondary road and soon reached our destination, the rest-house, a wooden structure built in a jungle clearing.  As we stepped from the car we could feel the hot sultry weather around us and were glad to sit in the shade of the verandah for a few minutes before unloading our baggage, three holdalls of plastic boxes and one for our pyjamas and washing gear, plus a few odds and ends and first-aid equipment.  We had a quick inspection of the bathroom and the bedroom and noted with satisfaction that all the windows were covered with fine wire mesh to keep out mosquitoes.
“It will also keep in all the spiders I can see in every corner,” observed John.
“Yes,” said George, “and we’ll leave them there till tomorrow and collect them just before we go.  That will save us feeding them tonight.”
“I think it’s time we were fed, isn’t it?” John remarked.
At that precise moment the caretaker appeared on the scene and called out, “Lunch, Bwana.”
We found the Mays already seated at a table on the verandah where, on this steaming hot day, we were served with a steaming hot curry!  A hot curry is apparently intended to cool one down in some peculiar manner but we would have preferred a cold chicken salad.  However, we washed every mouthful of curry down with ice-cold bottled water.  Incidentally, we must point out that salads should be avoided in the tropics unless one is staying in a 5-star hotel.  Our rest-house in the forest could not claim to be even a no-star hotel; rest-houses are what the name implies, places in which to rest for a night or two, not to wine and dine in luxury.
Soon after lunch the Mays retired for a rest whilst we decided to explore the forest around despite it being the hottest part of the day.  We wanted to experience the sights and sounds and make the most of every minute, even though we knew we would see very little.  Few animals stir during the day and we were lucky to see a pair of grey parrots flying through the treetops, screaming as parrots often do as they fly.  We spotted a hornbill resting on a lofty perch and a few small warblers searching for insects in the undergrowth.  Even so, just being there at all entranced us, knowing as we did that in a couple of hours time the forest would be alive with birds and, hopefully, beetles.
We returned to the rest-house to find Hilda and Alan preparing to leave.
“We’ll pick you up tomorrow about mid-morning,” called out Alan.  “I hope you are successful and catch at least one pair of beetles.  Johnny will want to show them to his friends at school.”
“We’ll do our best,” we called back as they drew away.
It was not long before the temperature dropped and several birds became active in the vicinity of the rest-house.  A golden-backed woodpecker flew across the clearing, a beautiful Klaas’s cuckoo, recognized by its metallic green and bronze wings, alighted in a tree nearby and a black bee-eater with a brilliant red throat landed for a moment on the roof of the rest-house before disappearing into the forest.  We also caught a glimpse of another bird, sooty black all over, which rejoices in the name of sooty boubou; it belongs to the shrike family.
At length the sun cast a deep orange glow across the sky and we knew it was almost time to switch on the verandah lights.  Twilight in the tropics lasts only a short while before darkness descends and our lights went on before the sun had set.  We saw no reason to wait a minute longer and within a matter of seconds we heard a loud buzzing sound and a sudden ‘plonk’ as a beetle banged into the metal lampshade over one of the lights.  We could only see a blur of wings propelling a huge object which looked like a large flying conker.  This surely had to be a rhinoceros beetle and as if to prove it, it struck the lampshade a few more times before plunging to the floor of the verandah.  John was nearer to it than George, so he rushed over to pick it up and George dashed into the bathroom for a plastic box.
“This is quite the largest beetle we’ve ever caught,” called out John, “and I shall call it George!”  George was in fact slightly larger round the tummy than John and it was always a source of merriment.
“But I think it looks more like you than me,” said George, “so I shall call it John.”  We always joked in times of excitement and this was most certainly an exciting moment.
As John held it firmly between his thumb and middle finger, we examined it closely.  The wings were now enclosed and out of sight beneath its wing cases which were glossy brown and looked as though they had been polished, rather like a conker.  The head was jet black, also glossy like black marble, but the most remarkable feature were the two horns projecting forward from the head, one above the other; the top horn was curved downwards, the lower one upwards, giving the creature a most fearsome appearance and an overall length of nearly three inches, 7cm.
Despite its size and looks we knew it was more or less harmless, but as John held it, it began to hiss and waggle its legs, so he gently placed it in the open container and George placed the lid over the top.  It immediately quietened down and began to explore its new surroundings.  George secured its capture with three elastic bands round the box which he then placed under the table away from the lights.  We felt it should be handy in case another beetle buzzed in.
Another beetle did buzz in, followed by another and another and suddenly there were flocks of beetles large and small swarming around the four light-bulbs on the verandah, crashing into the lampshades and falling like hailstones to the floor.
We each had a bald patch about the size of a cucumber slice and neither of us relished the idea of being dive-bombed by giant beetles plunging head first into that bare patch as though it were a dropping zone; those horns might have sunk deep into the grey matter and given us more than a headache! So we both leapt indoors very smartly and emerged again wearing jungle hats.
“Let’s collect about 20 of the largest beetles,” suggested.  George.
“Yes,” added John, “and half of them should be females.  We already have one male, so you can collect another nine and I’ll select ten bulky females.”
The operation took barely ten minutes by which time our three largest containers, each beautifully furnished, contained a total of ten pairs of the largest beetles we had ever caught.
We also gathered a number of scarab and longhorn beetles which had joined in the general onslaught and popped them into smaller containers.  We carried all the livestock into the bathroom and left them there for the night.  Astonished and delighted with our success, we decided to have an early night and then go out at dawn to seek other specimens.
We turned off all the verandah lights and all the house lights before climbing into bed and for a while we listened to the many diverse night sounds of the forest.  Some we recognized as emanating from frogs and toads, owls and nightjars, but most of them went unidentified including a sequence of the most piercing and hair-raising shrieks which grew louder and louder and lasted for several minutes.  We learned later that tree hyraxes shriek and scream at night, so we assumed they must have been the culprits.
We were too excited to sleep soundly, so it came as no surprise to find ourselves awake in the very early hours of the morning, long before dawn.  What did surprise us though was that we could both hear a distinct buzz every now and again; furthermore it was a familiar buzz.
“Can you hear it?” asked John.
“Yes; I was just going to ask you,” George replied.
“I’m sure it’s a rhinoceros beetle,” John continued, “but I’ll just look in the bathroom and make sure.”
He slipped out of bed, turned on the light and almost at once an invasion of rhinoceros beetles hurtled through the door into the bedroom and repeated their performance of the previous evening.
“Start picking them up,” John yelled, “I’ll fetch the boxes.”  With that he closed the door, dashed into the bathroom, switched on the light and was amazed to see all three of the largest containers wide open, their lids askew on the floor beside them.  But he had no time to puzzle over it.  He collected the containers and their lids and flew back into the bedroom to find George sitting on his bed with a hat full of beetles.
“Many of them landed on our sheets,” he exclaimed, “so they were very easy to catch.  The whiteness of the sheets must have attracted them.” 
A few beetles were still on the loose but these were soon caught and returned to their containers, as were those milling around in George’s hat.  We checked on the numbers; twenty had escaped and, thankfully, twenty recaptured, but the question remained: how had they managed to escape at all?  We couldn’t believe the beetles, large as they were, were powerful enough to force up the plastic lids sufficiently for the elastic bands to snap.  On the other hand back in the bathroom there were the torn strips of rubber lying about on the floor.  We examined them carefully and came to the conclusion that they had been weakened either by age or by the hot and humid climate.  We both found we could break them very easily and decided in future to use nylon cord or sticky tape, or both.  For the moment we piled one box on top of another and placed a pair of heavy jungle boots on the top lid.
Thus ended an eventful night in the African forest.  With the various interruptions depriving us of any sound sleep, we both overslept and were woken when the caretaker knocked on our door and called, ‘Breakfast, Bwana.’ It was already past nine o’clock so we missed our dawn patrol.  Hilda and Alan arrived shortly after, having left home earlier than they had intended and were astonished when we shoved them our loot.  So was Johnny when he arrived home from school later in the day.  “Cor,” was all he could say but he repeated it several times before he exclaimed, “They’re monsters!”
We were well pleased with our haul and would have been elated had we found a royal python.  We only had two days left so our chances of finding one were remote.
The very next day we found a royal python!

CHAPTER 9
ONE ROYAL PYTHON

It was our last full day in Ghana.  By now we knew several members of the Staff at the University, some of whom had gone out of their way to help us.  There was Dr.  Jago, for example, an entomologist with a special interest in grasshoppers.  He had asked us whether we would like to accompany him to a small area of forest where we might find a certain species of grasshopper.  “Just to look at it, not to collect it,” he had warned.
“Yes, we’ll certainly come along,” one of us had replied.  “Is it very far?”
“Oh no,” he said, casually, “only about sixty miles.  No distance.”
Sixty miles to see a grasshopper?  And that’s no distance?  Compared to the length and breadth of Africa, sixty miles might not be very far, but to travel all that way just to see a grasshopper seemed a very long journey.  However, we would certainly see something of the country and hopefully some interesting birds, so we were perfectly happy to go.
The journey itself was uneventful and we did stop to look at a number of weaver birds, shrikes, buzzards, parrots, hornbills and an occasional monkey.  At length we reached our destination and Dr.  Jago parked his jeep.  Collecting a long-handled net from the back seat, he set off on foot towards a small patch of forest.
“Call out if you see a grasshopper,” he told us, “as they could be anywhere.”
Hardly had he finished the sentence when he gave a shout of triumph, ran a few paces and gave a mighty sweep with his net.  “Got it!” he cried.
We gathered round and peered into the net.  There it was at the bottom and to our inexperienced eyes it looked like a perfectly ordinary greenish-brownish grasshopper similar to those anyone could find any day in any grassy patch of countryside.
Picking it up gently and holding it between finger and thumb, he held it up and said, “Look, do you see those two red dots?  That is what distinguishes it from all the other species  of grasshopper and as far as I know it has never been found anywhere else in the world, only around here where we are standing.  Isn’t that remarkable!”
We had to agree it was truly remarkable that any animal on earth should thrive only in such a tiny plot of land and nowhere else.  Even Dr.  Jago could offer no explanation.  We also considered it remarkable that by the time we returned to the University grounds we had travelled a total distance of 180 miles to see a grasshopper with two red dots.
Then there was another journey we undertook.  This time it was Dr.  Grimes from the Physics Department who was interested in birds, as we were.  One day he asked us whether we had ever seen a Picathartes or Bare-headed Rockfowl.
“Yes,” said John remembering that London Zoo had one some years ago, “but we have never seen one in its natural habitat.”
“I’m not surprised,” Dr.  Grimes continued, “as it is a very rare bird and not too many people have ever seen it, but if you are interested I can take you to a cave where one or two pairs are nesting.  I’m going there tomorrow morning, leaving about five o’clock.  It is only about 100 miles away but I want to be there before it gets really hot.  I’ll be happy to take you if that’s not too early.”
“No, it’s not too early,” George remarked, truthfully.  As a matter of fact we were quite often up as early as that on our collecting trips as the best time to birdwatch is dawn and the two or three hours that follow; likewise the two or three hours before dusk.  Rising early was no problem and having travelled a round trip of 120 miles with a top grasshopperyologist, we decided a 200 mile round trip with a top ornithologist was nothing out of the ordinary.  After all, we had come a few thousand miles to look at birds as well as to collect specimens.
That evening we prepared a few plastic boxes to carry with us and a couple of tall containers known as breeding cages as they are used mainly for rearing caterpillars or stick insects.  On previous trips we had found them ideal for spiders for they had room within to make a web and feel at home.  Hilda very kindly prepared sandwiches and drinks for us although we normally take no refreshments at all whilst collecting.
Dr.  Grimes collected us punctually on the dot of five and once again we journeyed forth, this time in darkness.
“Do you know for sure whether we’ll see any Picathartes?” asked George.
Yes, I’m pretty sure we will,” he replied.  “I’ve been going there every week to keep a record of their breeding and this week I’m expecting to find one or two eggs will have hatched.  If that’s the case, we must leave very soon after arriving.  I don’t want to risk the parent birds deserting the nests.”
We fully understood his concern.
The sky paled about an hour into the drive and we were thankful to feel the warmth of the sun and to watch the early birds catching their worms or searching for seeds.  One bright yellow weaver bird flew across the road just in front of us and landed in a bush.  We were driving quite slowly to avoid pot-holes, so we had time to watch it as it landed and noticed an enormous cobweb strung across from that bush to another one about three metres away.  We had never seen such a massive web and the most startling thing about it was its colour; golden! A shimmering golden sheen sparkled in the sunshine before our eyes.
“Stop! Stop!” called out John to Dr.  Grimes in top C.
The Doctor may have hoped John hadn’t had a heart attack and duly applied the brakes.  “Back a short distance, please,” he pleaded.  “Right.”
We twins piled out of the car and walked towards that golden creation and there, right in the centre like a queen upon her throne, sat its creator, the most vividly coloured spider we had ever seen.  It was almost the size of a Ping-Pong ball but oval in shape and eight long delicate legs fanned out widely in eight different directions like pointers on a compass.  But it was the colour scheme that stunned us; a beautiful rich yellow with jet black bands around the body and legs to match.  We stood there entranced, even hesitating whether to disturb this gem in such a magic creation.
“Let’s leave it there for now,” suggested John, “and collect it perhaps on our way back.”
George agreed.  In the past we had often left spiders where we found them and collected them at the last possible moment; that way they can feed themselves.
We climbed back into the car and Dr.  Grimes drove on for another half an hour until we reached a tiny village.  This apparently marked the end of the road for he parked the car in a shady spot and told us follow him in single file for a three mile trek through the bush!  We had expected a short walk, perhaps a few hundred yards, half a mile at the most; but three miles under a blazing sun sounded like a challenge.  However, having come this far we were not going to give up.  We walked in silence, passing through short stretches of forest where we had to clamber over fallen tree trunks and negotiate thorny scrub and tangled undergrowth.  We dripped and we wondered why rare birds so often choose such remote and hostile areas in which to lay their eggs and rear their young.
But we made it.  At last and with much puffing and blowing and panting, we could see just ahead of us an enormous rock, almost a cliff, overhanging the path and forming a kind of cave.  Dr.  Grimes motioned to us to stand still.  A moment later two pheasant-sized birds flew out of the cave and into the forest.  We had a fleeting glimpse of them, more like two black and white blurs.  Not a very satisfactory sighting of rare birds, but we just had to grin and bear it and hope for a better view.
As though sharing our feelings, Dr.  Grimes whispered, “They’ll be back soon.  Let’s go into the cave, I’ll have a quick look at the nests, then we’ll nip out again and wait here, where we are standing.  You’ll have a much better view then.  Come on!”
We moved forward a few paces and stood at the entrance.  Dr.  Grimes had extracted a small mirror from his haversack and was attaching it to the end of a long pole.  This he now raised and directed it to a nest high up in the roof of the cave; we could just discern a second nest near it.  He signalled with his fingers:  two nestlings.  He swung the pole over to the other nest and signalled again:  one.  Lowering the pole, he removed the mirror, replaced the pole to the side of the cave and whispered to us to follow him back to our original spot from which we first saw the two blurs.
“One bird will be back very soon, then the other one,” he muttered, “so keep very quiet and very still.”  He paused, “Any minute now.”
He was right.  A Picathartes flew down to a branch near the entrance and hopped about nervously.  Moments later it was joined by its mate.  We had perfect views of both through our binoculars and noted the bare yellow head and the two large black patches like ear muffs; its blackish back and tail contrasted with its white underside; a large black bill and rather long and powerful grey legs completed a very odd looking bird indeed and unlike any other.  Soon they flew back into the trees beyond.
“Right, let’s go,” said Dr, Grimes firmly.  “I don’t want to disturb them any more.  They are rare enough already and with three young birds in the nests.  I dare not risk them being deserted.”
We totally agreed.  We had now had a clear view of a pair of Picathartes, probably our rarest bird and were most grateful to Dr.  Grimes for leading us to its nest even though we were both ready to drop dead on the way.  The trek back seemed much shorter somehow; perhaps the joy and excitement of adding such a rarity to our bird lists had given us renewed strength and further joy and excitement awaited us:  that spider.
It was there, exactly as we had expected and this time we had no qualms about collecting it, particularly as Dr.  Grimes had mentioned that golden orb-web spiders are not uncommon.
We adopted out usual method of catching spiders in webs.  One of us holding the lid of a breeding cage approached it slowly from one side of the web, the other one with the canister from the other side.  Thus, as we closed in, the spider, still in its web, was caught in the cage together with that part of the web.  All we had to do now was to remove the rest of the web but it was so tough we had to borrow a pair of scissors from Dr.  Grimes and cut each strand clear of the lid.  This we did successfully but felt slightly guilty when we looked at that once magnificent golden web, now hanging forlornly with a large hole in the middle.  A rugby ball might have just passed through it.

	*		*		*		*		*		*

Now it was our last day in Ghana.  We had a nice collection of creatures including two of the three species at the top of our shopping list, imperial scorpions and rhinoceros beetles.  Only a royal python was missing and we had given up any hope at this late stage of finding one.
We were sitting in the Zoological Department chatting with a small group of doctors and professors and Mr. Barry Hughes, a lecturer in that department, when an African labourer came rushing in wielding a garden spade.
“Bwana! Bwana!” he cried in a shaky voice, “I find beeg beeg snake over dere,” and he pointed with an equally shaking hand.  “Come queeckly, Bwana, I’ll show you.” 
He dashed out of the room and we all followed, Mr. Hughes grabbing a large sack on the way.  Most Africans are inclined to exaggerate and a beeg beeg snake may well turn out to be a small house snake, even a grass snake.  However, this particular labourer was one of the gardeners employed by the University and because he had spent much of his life digging he had probably dug up numerous snakes and other creatures in the course of his work.  This time though he was clearly agitated, trembling from head to foot, so we were prepared to find quite a large snake.
He led as at great speed to an area of waste ground little used by the University.  Several anthills dotted the landscape and it was at the foot of one tall anthill that he finally came to a halt, breathless.  We were all breathless in fact as the labourer pointed to a hole in the ground behind the anthill.
“It is down dere, Bwana, down dat beeg hole,” he pointed.  His hand was shaking so violently we quite expected it to drop off.
Barry Hughes grabbed hold of the spade and started digging, mainly to widen the opening.  We both removed the broken earth with our bare hands and after a few more strokes with the spade he did the same, not wanting to risk any damage to the reptile.
It wasn’t long before a small portion of the snake was visible.
“You are in luck,” declared Barry, addressing himself to us, “I believe you are about to possess a royal python.  Let’s just remove the earth around that area until we can reach underneath.”
With 30 fingers between the three of us we quickly enlarged the space above and below that visible few centimetres until we could each grab a handful of snake.
“That’s fine,” Barry continued.  “Now if you two very gradually lift it up, I’ll loosen all the earth around it as it emerges.”
This we did until we were able to withdraw it completely from its hiding place and out came a beautiful royal python which immediately rolled itself into a ball, head in the centre and pretended it wasn’t there.  Barry held the sack open and we reverently lowered it into the dark interior where it would feel at home and probably go to sleep.  Barry estimated it to be about a metre in length.  We thanked the labourer and gave him a handsome tip, then returned to the laboratory, delighted to have fulfilled our mission.
One small problem remained when we boarded our plane the following day.  With a larger collection of luggage than usual we found there was not enough room for it under the seats; the overhead lockers were already full.  We noticed the first class cabin was half empty, however and asked a hostess if we might be permitted to occupy two of the vacant seats there.
“I’m afraid not,” she replied sweetly, “but if you care to move some of your baggage there, you’ll have more room.  Let me give you a hand.”
“Thank you very much indeed,” we both said before John added, “but do please keep it upright.”
“Oh,” she muttered, jokingly, “I hope you are not smuggling in kittens or puppies.”
“No, only baby elephants,” remarked George with supreme nonchalance.
If only that charming hostess had known the truth, she would surely have been the one to have had kittens!

CHAPTER 10
TURTLE FOR A DOLLAR

There were two reasons why we chose New York State for a collecting trip; one, London Zoo wanted some North American reptiles and amphibians and two, Dorothy and Ira Dennison, our sister and her husband, lived there and had offered us a home for a base at Lake George, some 200 miles north of New York City and deep in the countryside.  There was also a third reason; Dorothy’s cooking was of a very high standard and most of her guests asked for her recipes.
We arrived early one evening in good time for a hot bath, a change of clothing and our first meal which finished with one of her creamy desserts.
“A cream dream,” we pronounced after just one mouthful.
“A supreme cream dream,” emphasized Ira with satisfaction.  “Now you know why I married your sister.”
This chapter is not intended to dwell on Dorothy’s magical cooking which deserves a volume to itself.  We had two full weeks ahead of us in which to explore the country around and to collect an assortment of animals required by the Reptile and Insect Houses at the Zoo.  First we decided to collect reinforcements.  It was school holiday time and we guessed there would be a few Huckleberry Finns in the neighbourhood.
“Telephone the Ricketsons,” suggested Dorothy.  “They live not far away at Warrensburg just up the road and they have three teenage boys who would love to help.”
We phoned them immediately and yes, they invited us to lunch the next day.  It was then that we met Duane, 15 years old, who was already a collector of snakes and turtles and other reptiles and worked part time at a nearby zoo called Animal Land.  His two brothers, Zan, 16 and Bruce, 14, often helped catch the animals.  We also met Michael Eggleston, a 12 year old scout and a staunch friend of the Ricketsons.  When he heard we wanted to look around for frogs, his eyes lit up.
“Say, I guess I can find lots of frogs and I can ask my scout friends to help catch ‘em,” he said bubbling with enthusiasm.
“That sounds promising,” one of us remarked.  “How many scouts friends do you have?”
“Waal, I guess there’d be about 200,” he replied, beaming.
We beamed too.  200 scouts meant 200 pairs of hands which meant near enough 200 frogs!  Of course that would be far too many but it meant that we would be able to pick and choose some nice juicy specimens and release the rest; even those we kept we could release a day or two later and collect new specimens a day or two before we returned to London.
“Shall we just have a reconnaissance this evening?” suggested Duane. “I’ll show you the lakes; it’s only 20 minutes walk and you’ll love it!”
“Right,” we agreed.  “We’ll see you this evening then.”
Mr. Ricketson together with Duane and Michael collected us after our second cream dream and we drove to Camp Wakpominee where we could hear some rather raucous singing, no doubt some scouts engaged in the manner beloved by scouts all over the world; a sing-song.  Of more interest to us however was an equally raucous chorus of burps and croaks and peeps and shrieks so beloved by frogs and very soon we were all wallowing in the mire and mud.  Very thoughtfully Mr. Ricketson had brought spare Wellington boots for us, so we were able to join in the pleasure of catching, examining and releasing an endless number of frogs.  Duane identified several different species and we were well satisfied with our first excursion.  We decided we would keep a few choice specimens to show to Dorothy, then return them a day or two later and make our final catch a few hours before flying home.
Mr. Ricketson duly drove us back to the Dennison’s abode and we proudly carried the two plastic boxes of frogs indoors, waving goodbye to the boys and promising to phone them again to arrange a second hunting excursion.
Dorothy was entranced when she saw our livestock which included a very handsome leopard frog and a tree frog.  Ira on the other hand was aghast.
“They are only here temporarily,” we explained soothingly.
“Maybe,” he groaned, “but I’m here permanently.  Suppose I find one in the bath tub?”
“Then you just lie flat in the bath,” one of us suggested, “and allow it to climb up and perch on your tummy which would provide it with a nice smooth island.”
Amidst the general laughter Dorothy offered a solution.
“Why not use the spare bathroom upstairs?  They can have the whole bath to themselves.”
It was the perfect answer and we immediately carried the frogs upstairs, released them into a few inches of water and then transported a few large pebbles from the flower beds to provide islands upon which the frogs could sit happily and admire their new surroundings.  Ira breathed a sigh of relief and slept soundly that night.
We started collecting in earnest that second week, sometimes with the boys, sometimes without and we amassed garter snakes, ribbon snakes, milk snakes, a beautifully patterned corn snake, more frogs and numerous beetles, spiders and other invertebrates.  On one occasion when the boys were wading about in a swampy area, we twins were wading about amongst some poison ivy although we didn’t know it.  We were prepared to meet Red Indians, yes, but not poison ivy.  Fortunately we were wearing good thick trousers and stout leather boots as well as rubber overshoes and our usual leather gloves; it was our normal clothing worn as a protection against rattlesnakes, cottonmouths and other unfriendly creatures.  Now in our ignorance our clothes were protecting us from poison ivy.  It was Michael who set the alarm bell ringing.  He was walking several yards away when he happened to look up at us.
“Say, do you guys know poison ivy when you see it?” he yelled.
“No,” we answered.  “What’s it look like?”
“Look around,” he said, waving him arms, “you’re standing in it.”
We looked around.  A carpet of leaves, some reddish, some green, covered the area.  So this was poison ivy.  We had heard of it and knew from its name that it was poisonous, but we never expected to find it in this peaceful stretch of North American countryside.
Michael called to us.  “I guess you should walk towards me where you will be clear of it and keep your gloves on.”
This we did and minutes later we were safely out of it but not yet oat of danger.
“Don’t touch anything with your bare hands,” continued Michael.  “Find some long grass, there’s plenty around and rub your clothes with it hard.”
Duane and his brothers had joined Michael by now, having heard his anxious voice giving us directions and we were thankful indeed to have them with us.  Poison ivy, scientific name, Toxicodendron, will inflict a severe rash upon anyone who handles it, severe enough to require urgent medical attention if not hospitalisation.
All the boys spent several minutes rubbing our clothing vigorously with tufts of long grass until there was no trace of poison ivy left.
“Absolute angels, every one of you,” we told them thankfully.
“Aw, shucks, it’s all part of the fun of collecting with you guys,” was their response.
The fun was not over yet, either.  We were coming to the end of our North American holiday and very successful it had been, but there was just one more animal we needed to collect, apart from the frogs we knew we would find and that was a turtle.  Now turtles can be heavy and we did not fancy having to pay for overweight baggage on the flight home, bearing in mind that we carry it all with us on to the plane.  So we ruled out anything in the way of a turtle larger than a saucer.
Duane told as that turtles of all sizes could be found in the Schroon River near his home.  He had caught them there when that private zoo he worked for needed a turtle or two.  So thither we went on our last excursion, this time accompanied by Duane, Michael Eggleston who by now refused to be left out of anything and two newcomers, Michael Milic, 13 and Raymond Matteau, 15, both of whom lived near the river and knew every inch of it.  By fair means or foul, Duane had managed to acquire a very ancient and wobbly boat complete with a couple of oars and two tin cans; these were essential for the boat leaked in a dozen places and water had to be baled out constantly.
We managed to embark without the whole thing tipping over.  Duane and Raymond squeezed into the bows and the two Michaels into the stern; we twins volunteered to row as we had both rowed at school and it was an exercise we enjoyed.  Each boy was armed with a net and we entrusted them to scan the river for turtles and indeed we saw many large ones sunning themselves on logs protruding above the surface.  Most were asleep.  We rowed and baled with extreme caution, not wishing to disturb them and knowing that it was only a matter of time before a small enough turtle would be spotted.  The plan then would be to glide very slowly towards it and the nearest boy would reach out with his net until the loop was dangling just above the turtle; then, lowering the net gently, he would give it a twist and capture it.
It was Raymond who first spotted a suitable turtle.  It was on a log not far from the left bank and sleeping peacefully.  We steered the boat in that direction, barely lifting the oars and we stopped baling out for fear of making too much noise.  We were glad it was Duane who happened to be the boy nearest to it as we knew he was an experienced turtle catcher for his zoo, though we guessed the other boys had caught turtles just for fun.
The boat inched its way nearer and nearer to the log.  There was not a sound to be heard.  The turtle was motionless.  We were almost there.  Duane had his net poised.  A few more inches...
SPLASH!  A huge dog suddenly yelped and bounded straight into the river, apparently recognising one of the boys as its owner and thereby scaring every turtle up and down the river.  In a desperate effort to catch our turtle Duane reached out a bit too far and toppled into the river with an even bigger splash.  Meanwhile the boat was in grave danger of toppling over as well under the strain but we managed to keep it afloat by resting both oars on the surface, though not before quantities of water poured over the sides with a gurgling noise.  Duane quickly surfaced, also with a gurgling sound and swam to the bank.  The dog now tried to clamber into the boat to greet its owner, Raymond, but he nobly leapt ashore and his dog followed him, wagging its tail and showering him with spray.
By now the boat was waterlogged anyway and we twins and both Michaels waded ashore and helped tip the boat over to remove the water.  Of course we said goodbye to our precious turtle; the dog had totally ruined our turtle-catching exercise so carefully planned and so nearly successful.
However, all was not lost.  We did in the end secure a turtle.  We bought it at Duane’s zoo and we named it Duane.  It cost us one dollar.

CHAPTER 11
SMALL PARK, BIG GAME

After visiting the Arusha National Park in Tanzania, we fully agreed with Sir Julian Huxley who once described it as ‘a gem of a park.’  Yet it is one the smallest of the East African parks and least known by British tourists.
It covers an area of only twenty square miles some twenty-five miles southwest of Arusha.  The dominant feature is an extinct volcano rising 6,000 ft. above sea level.  Highland rain forest covers the slopes, but the floor of the crater is a flat grassy area 2,000 ft below the summit and about four square miles in extent.  Here the animals live a life undisturbed by jeeps or landrovers or any other form of transport.  A motorable road extends most of the way to the summit and visitors can easily walk to the top and indeed around the rim which gives access to a number of viewpoints.  Black and white colobus monkeys may be seen in the forest high up in the canopy; it is one of the most striking of all African primates.
At the other end of the park are a number of lakes which vary in colour according to the different forms and colours of algae living in the waters.  This attracts different species of birds to different lakes as well as the larger forms of wildlife; elephant, buffalo, rhinoceros, hippopotamus, several antelope species.
Between the lakes and the volcano there is grassland, savanna, scrub and acacia woodland, all of which adds to the attractiveness of the scenery.
The volcano, Ngurdoto, dominates the park, but Mt.  Meru at 15,000 ft. lies partly within and partly outside the park and is the fifth highest mountain in Africa.  It forms a majestic backdrop to the Momela Game Lodge where visitors to the park may stay and where we stayed for two weeks together with two young students, Ian Green and Stephen Spicer.  John had taught them geography at Hereward House School in Hampstead; now they were going to learn natural history.
After an early breakfast on our first day we met the Chief Game Warden, Mr. Vesey-Fitzgerald, who very kindly took as around the park in his landrover.  Every now and again we were permitted to leave the vehicle and wander about on foot.  This was a pleasant surprise; in most of the East African game parks it is strictly forbidden to leave one’s vehicle except at designated picnic spots, but here we could roam about at will though with a degree of caution.  “Keep well away from patches of dense vegetation,” we were warned, “and please don’t frighten the animals.” This sounded more like a plea for the safety of the animals rather than for us and a day or two later his remark took on a special significance.
He had lent us his landrover plus a driver for a whole morning so that we could do our own thing.  The driver was mildly amused when he saw us collecting beetles and spiders and he joined us in our search by helping to turn over heavy boulders or dead tree trunks. “I help move big stones,” he said, laughing, “but I no help pick up dem lizards; dem lizards are bad.” As far as dem lizards were concerned, dem lizards were just what we wanted and they soon found themselves safely inside plastic boxes.  Praying mantids and spidery objects and some unidentified creatures filled up most of the other boxes and we were well pleased with our morning’s work.
It was on our way back to the Momela Game Lodge that we were reminded of the game warden’s plea not to frighten any of the animals.  As the driver was proceeding along a dust road across an open grassy plain, we noticed in the distance two elephants, one on either side of the road and quite close to it.  Now anybody who drives a vehicle in Africa, especially in a game park, is well aware that elephants have the right of way, as warning notices quaintly put it.  No sensible driver would argue with that, nor would he argue with an elephant on or near the road.  Here we had two elephants, each a mere ten or twelve paces from it and certainly close enough to suggest caution on the part of the driver.  We fully expected him to start slowing down, but to our increasing alarm he did no such thing.
John who was sitting in the front next to him nudged him gently and reminded him, just in case he had forgotten, that elephants have the right of way.
“I know, Bwana,” he said, grinning broadly, “but dem elephants they know me; they are not bad elephants, dey are quite safe, but now I slow down.”
We were only about thirty yards from them when he did start to slow down.  As we approached the huge beasts they seemed unperturbed, even though we weren’t.  The pair of them merely continued plucking the grass that bordered the road.  The driver slowed still more, right down to walking pace, but even at ten yards away he still kept the vehicle moving.  Was he going to drive right past them?  We assumed that he was, but he had other ideas.  At a snail’s pace he drove on until he was exactly level with both elephants and then he stopped! 
So there we were, close enough to both elephants to give them each a bun.  We felt rather like the filling in a sandwich as we sat there in an open landrover, shaking like four jellies.  Not one of us was capable of holding a camera steady enough to take photographs.  One of the elephants stopped feeding for a moment as it turned to face the landrover and lifted its trunk, whereupon the driver leaned across towards it and shook his fist, at the same time talking to it in Swahili.  Thankfully, the elephant lowered its trunk and resumed feeding.  We resumed breathing.
“Bwana,” said the driver to John, “I told dat elephant to pay no attention to us.  Deese elephants, dey all know me; all de elephants in dis park, dey know me.  Dey not cause any trouble, dey are good elephants.  So now we drive back to de Lodge.”
He put the vehicle into gear and drove slowly away.  It was a remarkable experience for us and we came to the conclusion that at least some of the wild animals in this park must have had some sort of rapport with the human species, perhaps looking upon us as reasonably harmless creatures and probably inferior, not even worth chasing.  Whether they would think the same had we been on foot instead of in a vehicle is another matter and nobody is likely to put it to the test.  The excellent management of the park under Mr. Vesey-Fitzgerald and his Staff who never interfered with the wildlife may have created a sort of ‘live and let live’ bond of trust between the wild beasts and their human caretakers.  One will never know, but certainly those two wild elephants tolerated our presence in the knowledge that we had positively no intention of harming them in any way.  “Please don’t frighten the animals,” the Chief Game Warden had asked us.  It seemed the message had reached the animals too.  A gem of a park describes it perfectly.

CHAPTER 12
DO NOT DISTURB, LIONS AT REST

On most of the twenty-five annual collecting trips we made between 1959 and 1983 we were accompanied by two young zoology students.  The object of taking anybody at all was partly to help with the actual collecting and the physical task of searching for and catching the numerous reptiles and insects we hoped to bring back with us; and partly to give the students some practical experience in tropical and sub-tropical habitats, experience which could be of benefit to them later should they choose a career in natural history.
Our collecting expedition in the summer of 1969, however, was a very different story.  We were asked over the telephone one day by the Education Officer at the London Zoo, Mr. Michael Boorer, if we would accompany him and a group of XYZ Club members (Exceptional Young Zoologists) on a tour of some of the game parks in East Africa.
“Yes,” replied one of us, “I think we could both manage that.  How many club members will there be in the group?”
There was a short pause; Mr. Boorer was evidently looking at a list.
“About eighty-five.”
There was another pause, much longer.  We were stunned into silence, lost for words.
“However,” he continued at length, probably sensing that we were speechless, “there will be six adults in charge of the party; four will be from the Staff here at the Zoo and you two if you can manage it.  You know Africa quite well, I believe and you have been to some of the game parks, so it would be very helpful if you could join us.”
“Right, count us in.”  We were still in a whirl but recovering.  It was perfectly true that we knew several game parks including Tsavo, one of the largest, Lake Manyara which is famous for its lions, the Arusha National Park which we had visited only the previous year, Ngorongoro Crater, a huge extinct Volcanic crater one hundred square miles in extent in which roam tens of thousands of wildebeeste, zebra, Thompson’s gazelle and other animals.  We had been asked to suggest an itinerary; we would certainly include these four game parks as each was very different from the others.  Tsavo is in Kenya, the others in Tanzania.
After weeks of preparation and mounting excitement, the day of departure dawned and we met some of the students for the first time at Victoria Station ready to board the train to Gatwick.  A Daily Telegraph photographer was at the station too and captured the scene on film for posterity; we hoped its circulation went up the next day.  It was at Gatwick, however, that the entire party of students and adults assembled for the first time, having travelled from all over the British Isles.  A handful had even come from the United States.  We twins knew the four members of the Zoo Staff as well as a number of students.  John had roped in nine of them from his school in Finchley, plus one other boy named Paul Butler whom he knew also from Finchley.  We had also persuaded a boy who was in the audience when we gave a talk to his school, Framlingham College in Suffolk, to join us.  We particularly wanted Philip Lampkin to come on the trip because he lived in Nairobi, Kenya and he too knew the game parks.  More important still, he could speak Swahili.  Somehow we both anticipated he might come in useful as an interpreter, as indeed he did in one tricky situation.
So there we were at Gatwick Airport and a quick check indicated that one boy, Stephen Zilberman, was absent.  He was another friend of ours, so we were able to telephone his home and learnt that he was on his way.  So while we all waited around everybody took the opportunity to get to know one another and steal sly glances at each other’s outfits.  The students had been advised to wear subdued colours.  Bright red and yellow garments are all very well in Oxford Street and the King’s Road, Chelsea, for they are distinctive and attract attention; that was the last thing we wanted in an African game park.  We were going there to observe the wildlife, not to scare it away.  So we were delighted to notice that most of the boys wore bush shirts, bush hats and safari jackets, some of them camouflaged.  The girls had chosen summery frocks in dark greens and browns and some stout footwear.
Without exception every member of the party carried a camera or a pair of binoculars or both.  One boy was just about submerged under a pile of hardware.  Two cameras dangled from his neck, a telephoto lens was slung over a shoulder, a naval pair of binoculars over the other one; with one hand he grasped a tripod, with the other a large metal case full of spare films, lenses, meters and other photographic equipment.  On his back was a rucksack containing his clothing, while his passport and travel documents were gripped firmly between his teeth.  Travel light, everyone had been told!  However, as it turned out all that photographic equipment paid off; some weeks after our return, he was awarded first prize for the best wildlife picture taken on the trip and several thousand photographs had to be judged.
At length our flight number was called and we boarded our East African Airways plane appropriately painted in zebra stripes on the tail and fuselage.
It was when we were all seated that we heard Stephen Zilberman had been caught up in a traffic jam, but soon after the announcement he turned up looking like a Christmas tree decorated with cameras and telephoto lenses.  He collapsed into the one spare seat with a sigh of relief that was heard above the roar of the engines and seconds later the plane taxied to the runway and took off into the darkening sky.  It was a night flight and an uneventful one with the students trying to snatch periods of sleep, but nobody can do much more than doze on a plane unless one travels first class.  Students travel economy class, so we dozed our way to Africa and by the time we arrived there the following morning we all felt pretty weary.  Nevertheless, the sheer excitement of stepping on to African soil, most of them for the first time ever, overcame that feeling of tiredness.  The holiday of a lifetime was just beginning and nobody wanted to waste a minute of it by going to sleep.  We were there for two weeks and intended to make the most of it.
Two coaches awaited us once we had passed through customs and would be at our disposal throughout our stay.  Our first journey was a short one into the city and out to a residential area.  Green View Lodge was to be our home for a couple of days to give everyone a feel of Africa, especially the change of climate.  The Lodge consisted of several army like dormitories and washrooms and a communal dining hall in a beautiful setting of green lawns, exotic trees and a colourful array of wild flowers in brilliant reds and purples; all this under a deep blue sky flecked with cotton-wool clouds.  It was appreciated more once everyone had been allotted a bed, had deposited their baggage, had had a refreshing wash followed by a cooked breakfast and had then assembled for a few necessary instructions.  Yes, you may wander about the grounds but do not go beyond the boundary; spend no more than fifteen minutes in the sun and wear your hats; remember to take your anti-malaria tablets; do not drink the tap water, etc.  So with a promised visit into town later in the day, small groups of wide-eyed youngsters dispersed to explore the extensive grounds surrounding the Lodge.  Budding ornithologists with binoculars and field guides soon identified the firefinches, cordon bleus and other common birds, but we twins were kept busy helping to sort out the weavers and sunbirds and shrikes.  Notebooks soon began to fill up with bird lists.
Some of the girls were equally interested in the botanical side and recognised bougainvillea, euphorbia and other unfamiliar species.  Again, we were at hand to help with the spelling as much as anything.  John, head of geography at his Finchley school, made the point that including such names in an examination paper would impress the examiner and enhance their chances of passing.
Those first two days served as a useful introduction to Africa and a preparation for the tour, bearing in mind that most days would be spent in game parks where certain rules have to be observed.  One rule in particular is of paramount importance: STAY IN YOUR VEHICLE.  Failure to obey this is to put one’s life at risk.  After all, game parks are the domain of the wildlife which is free to roam at will, to breed, to rest, to feed and to behave as nature intended and nature intended some animals to hunt.  Too many animals can and do lie hidden in long grass or behind clumps of bushes.  Others charge if they are disturbed and some charge for no apparent reason; they just don’t like intruders.  So it makes sense to stay in your vehicle and even then one must be prepared to make a quick getaway if perchance an elephant or rhinoceros were to take a dislike to you.  In any game park one must expect the unexpected.  There are designated picnic spots in some parks where it is perfectly safe to leave your vehicle, but they are clearly marked as such.  If you are foolish enough to alight from your car anywhere else, you may become prey to those animals hiding in the long grass.
It was when we were touring the Lake Manyara National Park in our two coaches that the unexpected happened.  The previous evening we twins found ourselves alone and during the course of our discussion about the tour, John recollected an incident that had occurred to him on a previous visit.
“I was driving in the park with a friend and we came to a wooded area with lots of acacia trees.  We decided to pull up under the trees and there I opened the sun roof and poked my head and shoulders out to get a better view.  Well, I did get a very good view of a lion sitting in the tree right above me! And a second lion was lying sprawled along a branch just beyond it.  I quickly withdrew myself from the sun roof and closed it tight.  That one shock was quite enough for one day”
“Now you come to mention it,” George remarked, an idea crossing his mind, “I’ve heard about Lake Manyara and its tree-climbing lions.  I wonder if they will be in the trees tomorrow when we are there.”
“I think it’s very likely though I can’t be sure,” said John. “They do spend the hottest part of the day resting and sleeping in the branches.  They are half hidden in the shade and difficult to spot until you are quite close.  Why do you ask?”
“Well, I wondered whether we might give the students a shock.  We needn’t mention lions at all until we are more or less there under the trees and even then we won’t tell them there are lions in the trees.  We’ll just tell them to look around through the windows of the coach and call out if they see anything.  If we tell them to look for lions, they’ll know what to expect.  If we say nothing, they’ll get a bigger shock.”
“Yes,” agreed John, “I think we’ll try it.  There’s only one drawback; I doubt whether the drivers will want to stop under the trees, but they can stop on the track which is very nearby.”
“Right, so we won’t tell a soul,” promised George.
“Wait a minute,” John suddenly interrupted. “We’ll mention it to Philip Lampkin.  He lives here and probably knows Lake Manyara better than I do.”
“Alright,” George said finally, “so we’ll leave it at that till tomorrow.”

	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

As the two coaches drove up to the entrance to Lake Manyara National Park, everybody dismounted to stretch their legs for five minutes.  We knew we would be confined to the coach once we entered the park and we had already had a long drive to reach it, so a brief walkabout was welcomed.  Just inside the gate was the familiar warning notice: STAY IN YOUR VEHICLE.  Nearby was another piece of advice carved into a wooden plank: 
Let no one say and say it to your shame,
That all was beauty here, until you came. 
Some of us perhaps read it with a tinge of shame, wondering whether it was directed specifically at our own nation, but it was quickly forgotten as we all clamboured back on board.  John, together with two of the leaders and half the students including Philip, sat themselves in the leading coach, George with the remainder in the other.  Each of us in our respective coaches suggested the youngsters should keep their eyes open for elephant and buffalo as they were not uncommon and we had driven for barely five minutes before a small herd of buffalo crossed the dust road ahead of us.  The leading coach driver wisely stopped a safe distance away.  Buffalo are inclined to be unpredictable and not until they were no longer a threat did he drive on with caution, aware that the small herd could be the advance party of a larger herd.  No, they were on their own.  Other smaller game were seen; impala, warthog, baboon, Syke’s monkey, jackal, hyaena, mongoose, zebra, waterbuck, the last indicating the presence of water and it was not long before we all saw a large expanse of water on our left.
“Look to your left and you will see Lake Manyara,” John called out to his coachload, hoping George would do the same for we knew that once we reached the woodland lake, the acacia woodland was only a short distance further on, on our right.  The time was well past midday and coming up to the hottest part of the day, so the lions would be resting in the acacia trees by now.  They leap and climb up into the lower branches and then select a good stout horizontal branch and flop down along it with legs dangling on either side, a picture of contentment.
“See if you can spot any hippos in the lake,” John cajoled his group to divert their attention to the left.
Whilst they were thus distracted, John called Philip to his side and divulged our plan in hushed whispers. “Right,” he whispered back, “I’d forgotten about lions anyway.”
By now the coaches were level with the woodland and about the length of a cricket pitch away.  With everyone busy watching the lake on the left, John slyly glanced at the trees on the right.  He believed he could make out a few tawny but indistinct blurs amongst the branches, but the leaf cover made it difficult to be certain.  Then suddenly he saw one lion quite plainly and knew there would be others.  This was the moment to tell the driver to pull up, but the driver did so anyway without being asked.  Why? wondered John.
The driver turned round and spoke to him.  He seemed slightly ashamed.
“Bwana, we have puncture.”
“Puncture?” John queried in disbelief.
“Yes, Bwana, I tell you we have puncture; front wheel on left side.  Not good, coach too heavy.”
“Do you have a spare wheel?” asked John.
“Yes, Bwana, I have spare wheels but too much people on coach.  Coach too heavy.  I have jack to lift coach but too much people make coach too heavy.  If people leave coach, I lift coach with jack and change wheel.”
What a place to have a puncture, thought John.  Here we were in the middle of a game park and literally within a stone’s throw of a pride of lions.  As yet nobody knew about them, apart from the twins and probably Philip.
He turned to the boy and asked him to find out from the driver how many passengers would have to get off the coach, how long it would take to change the wheel, or whether as an alternative he, the driver, felt we should do nothing but wait until a warden appeared on the scene.  Game wardens constantly patrol the parks in case there is an emergency, but most parks cover an enormous area and it could be some time before a warden appeared.
In the meantime the second coach had pulled up close behind the first and its driver had calmly walked over to chat with his colleague, apparently quite oblivious of the danger.
Whilst Philip was talking in Swahili to both drivers, John decided it was time to explain the situation to the students and disclose his well kept secret.
“Now listen, all of you, listen very carefully.  I expect you know by now that we have a puncture.  You also know the rule about staying in your vehicle.  Well now, I think we are going to have to break that rule to allow the driver to use his jack to raise the coach.  However ...” and here John paused.  With several years of teaching behind him, he knew how to hold an audience in suspense.  A carefully chosen pause can create drama and excitement. “However,” he continued, “we have another problem.  You have all been looking for hippos in the lake on our left.  Now I want you to look through the windows on the right.  Apart from a lot of acacia trees, there is not a fat lot to see, is there? Or is there? Just tell me very quietly, but very quietly, if you see anything.”
There was silence as the two leaders and the students peered through the dusty windows.  A girl was the first to call out.
“Sir!” she exclaimed in a loud whisper, “I can see something; up there in a tree.  Sir!” That last ‘sir’ was a drawn out cry of alarm.
She pointed to the tree excitedly. “It’s a lion!” whispered another student in horrified tone. “Sir! There’s a lion in that tree and there’s another one!” By now several students had spotted them and John derived the greatest pleasure from their discovery.  This was exactly what we had planned, something exciting, almost a shock.  What we had not planned was the puncture, but that made it an adventure.
In the meantime Philip had spoken to the drivers who had agreed that about ten passengers would have to alight from the coach, changing the wheel would take no more than fifteen minutes, probably less and it was not a good plan to wait for a game warden; we might have to wait for hours.  The news was encouraging.  John had the impression that neither driver considered we were in any great danger; after all, one of them had walked over to the other as casually as though he was walking the dog.
“Right,” said John addressing the students once again, “the news is good.  Philip has been talking to the drivers and he tells me that only ten of us need leave the coach.  Fortunately, the door is on the left so we can slip out quietly and remain on that side, close to the coach.  That way we will be out of sight of the lions.  It won’t take the drivers long to change the wheel once the coach is jacked up.  Both of them will get cracking as soon as we are off.  Now I suggest we three grown-ups will be the first off, followed by Philip, so we shall only need six more.” At that point a forest of hands shot into the air as every single boy and girl volunteered to join the six.  They were certainly ripe for adventure, wallowing in the excitement.
“Nice to have so many volunteers,” continued John, “and I do appreciate it.  Thank you all very much indeed, but I shall select the heavyweights amongst us which of course will include the two leaders and me.  Philip, I shall need you as well, so I now want six large boys.”
At that point most of the girls groaned and lowered their hands.  John chose six boys who looked like members of a rugby team and addressed the remainder. “As for the rest of you, you too have an important part to play.  I want you all to keep a sharp look-out and if you see any movement amongst the lions, if you see one or more sit up and take notice, let me know at once.  That way you will be helping to protect all ten of us standing outside.  Any questions?”
John guessed there would be no questions and he guessed the lions would remain where they were, but one never knows. ‘Expect the unexpected’ had already proved itself; a puncture.  Nobody had expected that.
John led the way off the coach followed by Philip, one of the leaders, the six boys and finally the second leader.  The two drivers were already standing by the wheel with the spare wheel and jack nearby.  They quickly set to work, whilst John standing near the back of the coach slipped over to George in the second vehicle and brought him up to date with the news.  George had already realised what had happened and had even addressed his coach load of students in much the same manner as his brother. “Keep an eye on those trees,” he had warned them, “and if you see a lion descending to the ground, yell!”
To John he whispered, “I don’t think any lion will be bothered to move and even if it does, even if it approached us out of curiosity, it would move rather slowly and cautiously.  The boys would have time to get back on board.  They must be thrilled to bits.”
“They certainly are!” said John, “and the rest of the students and me!”
John rejoined his own group standing beside their coach and asked Philip to find out what progress the drivers were making and how long they will be.  Speaking fluent Swahili, he was proving a great asset to the group.  Very soon he reported back to John.
“They said they would be finished in about five minutes.”
John looked at his watch.  Five minutes can seem a very long time, especially when danger threatens and a pride of lions about 40 paces away could be said to pose a definite threat.  He stepped to the back of the coach and raised his binoculars to count them; one, two, four, six for sure, possibly a seventh and maybe a few more out of sight.  Yet it only needed one lion to climb down from the trees for John to order everyone back on the coach.
It never happened, but something else did.  The two drivers had completed their task and the coach was back on four wheels, but the drivers instead of climbing back into their respective coaches walked a few paces towards the lake, away from the lions in the trees and appeared to gaze at one lone tree with one or two bushes beneath it.  Then one of them called to Philip.  The boy moved over and handed him his binoculars.  He peered through them and gasped.
“Rhinos!” he called in a loud whisper, handing the binoculars back. “They sleep, Bwana, but they not safe.  We go back to coaches.”
Philip knew that rhinos have poor eyesight but acute hearing and sense of smell and as he raised the binoculars to his eyes he saw a movement in the bushes under the tree.
“They’re awake!” he yelled. “They’re getting up! Back on the coach all of you, quickly!” he called out to those still standing around.  No need to whisper now; the rhinos must have heard them and Philip knew they would be furious at being disturbed.
The students on both coaches had been watching the drama as they were higher off the ground and they now had a clear view of the two rhinos.  Suddenly they all started screaming. “They’re charging, they’re charging! Hurry up, hurry up!”
The few still outside scrambled up the steps.  The driver had the engine running and moved off as John, last one in, closed the door behind him and looked back at the rhinos hurtling towards the coach which gathered speed and threw up clouds of dust.  The great beasts faltered for a moment before charging again but, confused by the dust, they charged off in different directions and were swallowed up in the dust cloud.
“Gosh!” said Philip, panting, “that was a close thing! A few more seconds and one of them at least would have hit us.  Gosh! What a good job we didn’t disturb them when the coach was jacked up.  They would have smashed it to pieces and us as well.  Gosh!” That was the third ‘Gosh’ as well as a sobering thought which was best forgotten.
Not forgotten though were the events of the day which everyone was now discussing in shrill voices.  First, there was that exciting moment when John and George in his coach, had told everyone to look through the windows on the right and they spotted first one lion in a tree, then another and another, all of them far too close for comfort.  Then there was the puncture, decidedly nerve-wracking for those gallant volunteers who stood beside the coach while the wheel was being changed.  And finally, the fury of two charging rhinos hurtling hell-bent towards the two coaches with the drivers, six leaders and 85 young students on board.  That was an experience they will long remember and so will the twins who had planned a comparatively mild shock at seeing a pride of lions at close range, but they didn’t expect rhinos to put in an appearance. “Expect the unexpected,” they had warned.  The ‘unexpected’ certainly happened that day.

CHAPTER 13
SNAKE ON BOARD, DRIVER FLEES

A somewhat more amusing incident occurred when the eighty-five young zoology students spent a day in the Arusha National Park.  This is the park we twins had visited the previous year with just two students to accompany us and had felt like the filling in a sandwich when our land rover came to rest between two elephants.  It is also the park where visitors are permitted to leave their vehicles and roam about on foot in limited areas and it was in one of these areas that the whole party was now wandering in groups, enjoying the scenery and making a close study of some botanical specimens new to them.  Other groups to whom we had distributed plastic boxes were searching for beetles and other forms of livestock for the Zoo and it was not long before the boxes began filling up with specimens; huge black and yellow orb web spiders, shiny green chafer beetles, green and brown praying mantids and giant six inch millipedes.  Then suddenly Jonathan Caplin found a snake.  Jonathan was one of several boys from Clark’s College in Finchley where John taught English and geography and they had learnt quite a lot about snakes during their geography lessons.  Snakes in their geography lessons? Well, yes, for they were making a fairly detailed study of Kenya and Tanzania in preparation for this particular trip and the wildlife of both countries was just a part of their studies.  As a result, Jonathan recognised the species of snake he saw coiled up on a bare patch of soil partly concealed by long grass growing around it.
“Sir!” he called with undisguised excitement, “I’ve found a snake! I think it is a python and quite a big one.  Sir, come quickly!”
We ran over to him and confirmed that it was indeed a python.  Several other boys joined us but kept their distance.  All the students had been warned not to handle even the smallest snake should they find one, but to call for one of us.  Jonathan had done exactly that and had correctly identified the reptile.
“Well done, Jonathan,” said John, “and congratulations on spotting it and identifying it.  Yes, it is quite a large one judging by its girth.  I hope it isn’t too large to handle.  It certainly won’t go into a plastic box, but we did bring a couple of fairly large sacks just in case anybody found a large snake.”
By now more students had gathered around, one or two showing a mild degree of nervousness at coming so close to a free ranging python.  John despatched two of the visibly timid girls to fetch a sack. “You’ll find it on the luggage rack above my seat on the first coach.  Don’t tell the driver why you want it; most Africans are horrified of snakes.  And be as quick as you can.”
We twins conferred with each other for a moment to decide, first, whether the snake was too large and second, how best to transfer it into a sack.  It was certainly larger than any snake we had ever presented to the Zoo and it might well prove to be too heavy.  Overweight baggage can be very expensive.
Whilst we all waited for the girls to return, John thought a natural history lesson on snakes might be useful.
“Here we have a fairly large python.” he began, “which is non-venomous, as I’m sure you all know, but it will still need to be handled carefully.  Remember, all snakes can bite whether they are venomous or not and pythons can squeeze as well.  In other words it is a constrictor.  Fortunately it seems to be fast asleep.”
“How big do you reckon it is, Sir?” enquired one of the students.
“Well, it’s a bit difficult to judge,” John explained, “because it is coiled up and part of it is hidden under the coils.  So there’s no way to measure it, is there?”
“Please Sir.” came a squeaky voice from a small boy, “would this help?” The boy slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out a six-inch plastic ruler.  Everyone dissolved into laughter.
“Yes, I think it would help,” replied John at length.  “I’ll tell you what we’ll do.  First, hand me the ruler.  Thank you.  Right, now then, if you like to uncoil the snake and hold it out in a nice straight line, I’ll then measure it.”
More laughter followed until George intervened.
“I’ll explain very briefly the best way to transfer the snake into the sack when it arrives.” George had handled many snakes when he lived in Malaya and we had already agreed that he should take charge of dealing with the capture of any snake we came across. “First, my brother and I and perhaps two students will have to kneel down in a circle round the snake; then at a given signal we all lift it gently and place it in the sack which will be held wide open by two more students who will be kneeling very close by, the sack on the ground just inches away.  That way we won’t have to lift the snake very high, no more than about six inches.  All right so far?”
There was a general murmur of assent.
“Good,” continued George. “Now, then, once it is in the sack, the two boys holding the top open will then have to pull up the sides very slowly, so in the end the snake will be at the bottom of the sack.  I shall then tie a knot in it and that will be that.  With luck the snake won’t even wake up.  Right, then, all I want now are four volunteers, two to help my brother and me lift the snake and two to hold the sack open.”
Before he had finished talking, every student present, even the girls, had a hand raised high.
“Well, thank you all for volunteering,” said George, smiling, “but I’m not surprised; I’m sure you would have all volunteered even if it had been an elephant.  However, I’ll select Jonathan and, er, you,” and he pointed to a hefty youngster who looked as though he could lift a gorilla, “and two more, you and you, to hold open the sack.  Everyone else must stand back a little to give us room.  Ah, here come the girls with the sack.”
They handed it over to George who examined it carefully to ensure there were no holes in it.  He then handed it to the two volunteers and showed them exactly how to roll down the sides and hold it at ground level.
“Right,” he continued, now addressing Jonathan and the other volunteer, “you kneel down here and here and my brother and I will kneel opposite.  Good, that’s fine.  Now when I say one, two, three, lift, we must all slide our hands under the snake and lift it slowly just off the ground and then lower it very gently into the sack.  You two boys holding the sack, come a bit closer, as close as you can.  That’s good and hold it wide open.  All ready then? Right, here we go; one, two, three, lift.”
The operation went smoothly and perfectly.  The python remained coiled up throughout and was transferred without protest.  As it came to rest on the bottom of the sack, the two boys rolled up the sides and George concluded the operation by tying a knot half way up.  In the few seconds it took to transfer it, we realised that it was indeed a heavy snake and we had doubts whether we should have bothered with it at all.  However, having enlisted the help of the students, we didn’t want to disappoint them at this stage.  So between us we carried the bundle back to the coach, the children following behind.  We hoped the snake was still sleeping; a fast asleep snake is a lot easier to manage than a wide awake one.  Climbing the two steps into the coach presented a slight problem as there was room for only one of us at a time, but once in we lowered the sack on to a seat and were glad to sit down beside it; it certainly was a heavy bundle.
We became aware that the coach driver was watching and that he wasn’t too happy.  He had become quite used to having plastic boxes full of creatures brought in, but he could see into them and knew exactly what they contained.  True, he did shudder when he saw a large black scorpion in one box, but when we showed him the lid sealed firmly with sellotape and two strong elastic bands round the box, he calmed down somewhat.  The sack, however, was a different matter.  It looked suspicious.  What did it contain? His eyes bulged with curiosity.  At length he could restrain himself no longer.
“Bwana, have you animal in dere?” he asked in a trembling voice.
“Yes,” said George, “but it is quite safe.  Don’t worry, it is fast asleep.”
“Bwana, it no sleep,” insisted the driver. “Look, Bwana, it is moving.”
We both looked down at the sack.  The driver was quite right.  It was moving.  Hoisting it up those steps must have disturbed it.
It was John’s turn to try some soothing tactics. “Yes, it is moving a bit, you are quite right, but then most animals move a little when they are sleeping.  You move in your sleep, so do I.  So there is no need to worry and it will settle down again in a minute.”
“Bwana, it no sleep and I know what is in dere.  It is snake, big snake, big, big snake.  Bwana, I not drive dis bus with snake.  I go now, I go quick.  I come back when snake has gone.  You take snake away, den I come back.”
There was no stopping him and there was no mistaking his terror as he climbed out of the driver’s door, leapt to the ground and fled.  He was clearly shocked, but Africans do fear snakes as indeed do many people all over the world, even in Britain.  So it was quite obvious to us that either we kept the snake or the driver, but not both.  We really had no choice but to abandon the snake.
We proceeded to carry the sack down the steps and made our way back to the exact spot where Jonathan had found it.  Again, the students accompanied us and two of the stronger ones relieved us at intervals.  The python seemed to have settled down for there was no further movement within the sack.  At length we arrived at that bare patch of earth and there we lowered the sack to the ground, untied the knot and rolled the sides down until the python was exposed at the bottom, still coiled up but no longer asleep.  Indeed, it raised its head an inch or two and seemed to gaze at each of the students gathered round as if it was thanking them for returning it to its own home in the wild and giving it its freedom.  Of course it was doing no such thing, but it was a nice impression to leave with the students.  Finally it tucked its head back into the depths of its coils and there we left it exactly where we had found it except that it now had a very desirable residence in the shape of a sack in which to sleep.
As our party of helpers returned a little solemnly to the coach, the driver emerged from somewhere grinning widely to indicate his pleasure that we no longer had a snake and that he was now willing and able to carry on driving.  As a matter of fact, we ourselves began to think that perhaps we might have had problems carrying a heavy sackful of python on board a plane and more problems passing through customs at Gatwick Airport.  We were thankful that the driver had deserted his coach, thereby resolving the problems before they had arisen.
At the end of this African trip then we duly arrived at Gatwick and declared our collection of livestock calmly and with an air of innocence as though it were perfectly normal to return to this country with a live assortment of wriggling creatures.  We adopted our usual tactics which by now had been tried and tested to our satisfaction.  That is to say we produced a written list of all the specimens in our boxes, starting with those most feared by most people; tarantula spiders, black widow spiders, scorpions, assassin bugs, poisonous frogs and the like.  On handing the list to the officer inspecting our baggage, we invariably watch the expression on his face and note whether it changes to one of horror or to surprise.  If horror is writ large, we can be fairly certain he doesn’t want to know and that he won’t examine a thing.  On the contrary, he will want to get rid of us as fast as possible and we are very happy to oblige.  We leave rapidly.
If on the other hand the officer shows a measure of surprise and curiosity, we are equally happy to oblige and show him some of our animals, giving him an on-the-spot lesson in natural history.  Of course we explain that everything is destined for the London Zoo and to confirm this we produce a document from the Zoo authorising us to bring livestock in duty free.  This is not quite the same as authorising us to bring things in; that is up to the customs.  However, the document does impress and we have always been allowed through.  As a matter of fact we have never found out for sure whether bringing livestock into the country as we have done for 25 years is really allowed.  Incidentally, we have been asked many times whether our animals should go into quarantine.  We have replied by explaining that the Zoo has its own hospital.  Besides, how does one tell whether a beetle has mumps or chicken-pox?
For the record, the Exceptional Young Zoologists visited Tsavo National Park, Amboseli, Ngorongoro Crater, Ol Duvai Gorge as well as Arusha and Manyara National Parks and on our return we presented the Zoo with a total of 85 specimens.  This was a coincidence for we had 85 students with us, although not all of them helped with the collecting.  Nevertheless, they all agreed that it was the holiday of a lifetime and we know of at least two who eventually took up conservation work when they left school and college.  Others accompanied us on further collecting trips to Guyana, Sri Lanka, Gambia and elsewhere, generally penetrating into the depths of our favourite habitat, the rain forest.
The youngest boy on this African trip happened to be the youngest student we have ever taken; just 14 years old.  Subsequently he accompanied us on three more trips and became so intrigued and impressed with wildlife in general that he finally became the Conservation Advisor to the Government of St. Lucia in the Caribbean.  He is now a world authority on the St. Lucia Parrot and can truthfully claim to have saved it from extinction.  His story appears in Chapter 16.

CHAPTER 14
DO YOU WANT TO BUY A SLOTH?

Bartica is a small town situated on the west bank of the Essequibo River in Guyana.  To reach it we travelled upstream on a four hour journey by steamship from Georgetown, the capital.  For this collecting trip we were accompanied once again by Paul Butler and his girl friend, Carol and on arrival at Bartica we booked in at the Hotel Moderne.  It was anything but modern but only five minutes walk from the rain forest.
Whenever we went on a collecting trip whether to Morocco or Malaya, Trinidad or Thailand, word quickly spread amongst the local population that we were there to catch small animals such as lizards, beetles and spiders, alive and in good condition.  In no time at all children of all ages would appear as if by magic offering frogs, ants, moths, grasshoppers, beetles, crabs, lizards and on one occasion a slightly surprised puppy.  They made it very plain that they expected to be rewarded for their efforts and were highly delighted with our small change.  Many of their offerings were far too small and we had no use for tattered moths, but these we released when the children had departed.
One day the four of us were walking to a jungly area near the town when a voice called to us: “Do you want to buy a sloth?”
We turned and beheld a group of children, the oldest no more than ten.  He and another boy were holding a stout six-foot branch supported between them on their shoulders and clinging to it was a sad looking sloth suspended beneath, a perfectly normal position for a sloth.  Had it been a snake or an iguana we would have accepted it, but a sloth was another matter; we knew we would have to refuse it.  It was a three-toed sloth which would feed on a specialised diet of leaves and tender buds, quite unobtainable in London.  A two-toed sloth is less fussy over food.  However, out of kindness we examined the animal, anxious to show an interest but equally anxious to say “no” without causing offence.  We were also curious to know how much we were expected to pay for a three-toes sloth captured by a young boy in the back of beyond.  We reckoned the sloth department at Harrods might have put a price tag of a few hundred pounds on it; what would a ten-year old boy expect?
There was one very good way to find out. “How much?” asked George.
The children went into a huddle and whispered to one another.  We too went into a huddle and agreed not to go above £30.  Both huddles broke up and the smallest boy approached us shyly.  His shorts were in ribbons, his shirt a rag and he wore nothing on his feet.
“Two pounds,” he said, softly.
We were staggered. “That must be the sale price,” suggested John.
“It’s really rather sweet,” remarked Carol stroking the sloth’s underside which happened to be upperside.  Indeed we all agreed and it was such a bargain we decided to buy it and release it later on.
“Right, we’ll have it,” George said calmly as though he was buying a pair of socks. “Would you wrap it up or put it in a sack or something?”
The boys led the way to their home nearby at a brisk pace, fearful we might change our minds.  We discussed ways of releasing the sloth and decided to do so on the far side of the river where nobody lived, apart from one family who travelled across to our side daily.
“I’ve an idea!” Paul exclaimed suddenly. “Yesterday I met that family over on this side.  The husband works here and he’ll probably lend us his boat.  He’s a friendly character and laughs like a clap of thunder.  In fact he’s known as Thunder.  He works at the Telegraph Department.”
“That’s great,” broke in Carol. “I would love to release the sloth.”
“But of course,” John assured her, “but be careful of its claws as they are extremely sharp.  It spends most of its life hanging upside down in the trees and its hair grows in the opposite direction from normal so that when it rains, as it does frequently, the rainfall runs off without soaking its skin.  And don’t hug it.  Bugs live in its fur!”
Carol looked anxious, but the nature lesson ended as we reached the boys home.  The ten-year old went indoors and emerged again with Mother, a sister, an aunt or two and a large grubby sack.  This we examined to ensure it was dry and without holes.  Then the boy handed it to Mother to hold, open end uppermost.  Next he removed the sloth gently from its hold on the branch, his mates assisting and deposited it with commendable care into the depths of the sack.  Carol watched carefully, noting how he held the animal from behind and out of reach from its claws.  We all thanked the boys and paid our £2.  To the shy little boy in ribbons we gave a pair of Paul’s shorts which he accepted with an expansive grin.  The others each received a tee-shirt.  On all our trips we carried an assortment of cast-off clothing for use as on-the-spot gifts to those who helped.  Over the years shirts, socks, jumpers, gym shoes, shorts even pyjamas have changed hands in remote jungle areas in exchange for reptiles and insects and other invertebrates, all of which found new homes in London Zoo.  Now the sloth was going to a new home, but not to the Zoo; only to the jungle across the four mile wide river.
“Let’s call on Thunder now,” suggested Paul. “We don’t want to be lumbered with a sloth longer than necessary and the sooner we release it the sooner it will feed.  It probably hasn’t eaten for ages.”
We agreed.  Paul hoisted the sack over his shoulder as though he were Father Christmas and the four of us made our way to the Post and Telegraph Department on the river bank.  As we arrived at that not very imposing building, there was Thunder preparing to cross the river.  His boat was moored alongside his office.  He greeted Paul with a thunderous yell, deafening us with his laughter.  His nickname was appropriate.
“Hullo!” he boomed. “I go across river to my house.  Would you like to see my house? Come, you and your friends, jump in boat.”
“Can you take us all and a sloth?” queried Paul.
“Of course, but why you take sloth?”
Paul explained: “We have just rescued it and want to release it where it won’t get caught again.”
“Ah, now I understand,” said Thunder approvingly. “I like animals to be free and happy.  There is plenty jungle on other side and no people, only my family.  Your sloth will be safe.  Come on, we go now.”
Thunder held the boat with his foot as we clambered aboard.  It was quite large but badly in need of a coat of paint.  However, it seemed sturdy enough and it must have carried Thunder and his family back and forth countless times.  When we were all seated, he unlocked a chain securing the boat to a post, climbed in and fiddled with the outboard motor.  Within seconds it burst into life.  Thunder burst into a roar of approval and we headed for the opposite shore four miles distant.
“My boat very good,” he yelled four yards out.
“Does it have a name?” asked Carol.
“Yes, it has good name; I call it Queen Elizabeth,” and Thunder shook with boisterous joy.  Seconds later the engine spluttered and stopped.
“What a good job Her Majesty is not on board,” remarked John as Thunder again attended to the engine.  Very soon both he and it broke into a roar as it came to life.  Queen Elizabeth was alive and well.
We reached the other side without further mishap and stepped ashore.  Hordes of chattering children ran from a wooden house on stilts a few yards back from the water’s edge and greeted Thunder with high pitched squeals.  We visitors were studied with curiosity, yet politely.
“My wife inside house,” Thunder called above the general hubbub. “Take sloth into jungle and put it on tall tree.  It will climb to top of tree and be happy.  Go now, I keep children here so they not see where you put sloth.  Then come back to house.  My wife prepare lemon drinks for everybody, then I take you back across the river.  She will come too to buy food and clothes.”
What a friendly character Thunder proved to be, caring for us and his family.  Nothing seemed too much trouble for him.
“We won’t be long,” called out George as we moved off into the jungle and followed a trail until we were well out of sight and hearing.  We found a suitable tree, one of many that soared straight up for over 50 feet before branching.  Paul lowered the sack gently to the ground, George lifted the bleary-eyed sloth and handed it over to Carol so that she could grasp it from behind.  John kept himself busy with his camera photographing every stage of the exercise.
At length came the moment to release the animal. “I declare this sloth free!” announced Carol solemnly to an audience of parrots which flew past as she carefully and reverently placed the animal on the tree trunk.  Its legs were already extended ready to grasp the bark and it lost no time in climbing straight up as Thunder had predicted.  Even though a sloth is incapable of doing anything in a rush, this one deserved a gold medal.  It almost sprinted up that tree and was lost to sight in the canopy.
“What a lovely way to spend £2,”“ remarked John, feelingly.
“And I hope it lives happily ever after,” added George.
We returned to Thunder’s house in a happy frame of mind.  Mrs. Thunder handed lemon drinks all round.  Cool and refreshed, we were ferried back across the river with both Mr. and Mrs. Thunder; she went shopping, he returned to his Post and Telegraph office, we returned to our hotel.  We had plenty to talk about, not least, how best to show our gratitude.
The next morning we too did a little shopping, then called on Thunder in his office to present him with a holdall; it contained tee-shirts for his children, a shirt and trousers for himself and a selection of smalls and unmentionables selected by Carol for his wife.  Peals of merriment exploded from that ever-smiling employee of a Government department.
“Thank you very much,” he kept repeating between outbursts. “Yesterday you were kind to sloth, today you are kind to me and my family.”
“There’s just one more thing,” interrupted Paul holding up a package. “We also want to be kind to Queen Elizabeth.  Please accept this.”
A bewildered Thunder opened the parcel and extracted a tin of royal blue paint. “Oh, for my boat! Thank you, thank you,” he exclaimed and more howls of laughter reverberated through the walls of the Department.
So it came to pass that a young Guyanese boy became enriched to the tune of £2, his brothers acquired clean shirts and shorts, an entire family across the river could bedeck themselves in the latest fashions, an ageless vessel would soon look resplendent in a new coat of paint and a sloth had regained its freedom, all because a small boy from the back of beyond had asked a simple question: Do you want to buy a sloth?

CHAPTER 15
THAILAND INCIDENT

After talking to some keen young naturalists at London Zoo, one 16-year old boy, Colin Fitzsimmons, asked whether we could visit his parents at his Hertfordshire home to discuss the possibility of him accompanying us on our next trip.  Thailand was to be our destination.
John was busy teaching, so George subsequently drove to Colin’s home near Northaw where he met his parents and young brother, Gary.  He was also introduced to a sizeable collection of livestock including snakes, a water dragon, toads, an American bullfrog the size of a dinner plate, canaries, doves, Chinese quail, one cat and a chicken which enjoyed sitting on Colin’s lap.  George was very soon impressed with the boy and his obvious love of animals.  He was a member of the Exceptional Young Zoologists Club based at the Zoo and had recently joined his local herpetological society.  Reptiles and amphibians ranked high in Colin’s world and George made a mental note of that.  We collected reptiles and amphibians.
Thailand was discussed over lunch and into the afternoon.  Mr. Fitzsimmons enquired about passports and visas and insurance; Mrs. Fitzsimmons wondered how many pairs of socks and underpants Colin would need to pack; and Gary suggested he should bring back a couple of rattlesnakes.
“Rattlesnakes don’t grow in Thailand,” George informed him politely.
“Then make it cobras,” retorted Gary.  He was only nine years old.
By tea time it seemed that everyone approved of everything and George departed with the knowledge that Colin would be helpful on any collecting trip, especially when it came to wading through swamps and marshes in our search for frogs.  He would probably be able to identify many of those we found and he seemed keen enough to fling himself into a squelching bog if he thought it contained a frog.  He was a ‘frogologist’ without a doubt.
John visited the Fitzsimons family during the school holidays and was equally impressed with all he saw, including the cream buns.  By early summer preparations for the collecting trip were well advanced.  Numerous plastic boxes and other containers had been assembled and insect repellent, first aid kit and a variety of tablets to ward off troublesome complaints that one can pick up in the tropics had all been acquired.
At length came the summer holidays and frequent telephone calls from Colin to our home in Eastbourne indicated a degree of excitement pervading the Fitzsimmons household.  Our trip was planned for August; airline tickets had arrived and hotel bookings in Bangkok confirmed.  Necessary inoculations had been endured with no ill effects.  Then, with less than two weeks before our departure, John woke up one morning feeling distinctly unwell.  He sat up in bed and felt a sharp pain across his chest.  Indigestion, he decided and lay down again but the pain persisted.  George stirred in his own bed on the other side of the room.
“Are you awake?” called out John.
“Yes,” yawned George. “Are you?”‘
“Yes, but I have a bit of a sort of a kind of a pain.”
“Oh.” George paused before he asked, “Exactly where do you have a pain?”
“Round about here,” and John pointed to his chest. “I think I might call the doctor just to make sure it’s nothing.  He might prescribe some nice large chocolate-coated peppermint creams.”
“You will do nothing of the sort; I’ll phone him,” George insisted, “and you stay in bed and eat nothing for a week.”
George telephoned and then washed and shaved and dressed in order to look presentable.  The doctor arrived as he was tying his last shoe-lace.
“Good morning, doctor,” George greeted him. “My brother’s in the bedroom.”
“Hallo, doctor,” said John as he entered, “I’m sorry to drag you out so early.  Do have a cup of tea; my brother has volunteered to put the kettle on.”
“Ah, thank you, yes, two lumps please, but let me examine you first.”
George disappeared into the kitchen.  The doctor extracted his stethoscope from his black bag and sat on John’s bed.  First he felt his pulse.
“I understand you have a pain in your chest,” he began. “Can you tell me when it started?”
John thought for a moment. “Not really; I woke up with it half an hour ago.”
The doctor continued to examine him; John thought he looked concerned.
“Well, well,” he muttered as he removed the stethoscope from his ears, “I have to tell you I am not at all happy with your heart and I’m afraid you will have to be admitted to hospital.  If 1 may use your telephone I’ll make all the arrangements.  An ambulance will be here shortly.  Perhaps your brother could pack a few things for you, razor, toothbrush, odds and ends.  You stay where you are.  You appear to have had a heart attack so stay there till the ambulance arrives.”
“Did you say a heart attack?” asked John in disbelief, “Are you sure it isn’t just a pain? I’ve never had a heart attack in all my life.”
“Nor has anyone until they have one,” retorted the doctor pointedly. “Now where is your telephone?”
“In the hall, by the door.”
John listened as he dialled and then heard him talking about myocardial infarction and assumed that was the medical term for heart attack.  He wondered whether he would be out of hospital in time to fly to Thailand.  Our collecting trip was just ten days away.  The doctor spoke a little more before putting down the receiver and returned to John’s bedside.
“Doctor,” John said, “I’m supposed to be going to Thailand in ten days from now.  Do you think I’ll be...”
“I’m afraid not,” he interrupted, “that’s out of the question.  You will be in hospital for two weeks at least and then you will have to convalesce for several weeks after that and take things easy.  Thailand will have to wait.”
At that moment George appeared with a cup of tea for the doctor. “Did I hear you say Thailand will have to wait?” he asked, fearing the worst.
Before the doctor had time to reply, John reported to his brother. “I have news for you.  I’ve had a myocardial infarction,” he said with a measure of pride.
“Well, fancy,” remarked George, pretending to understand. “Give it my love.”
“Let me enlighten you,” John went on in a superior tone of voice. “A myocardial infarction, I’ll have you know, is in plain English a heart attack and it looks as though I shall be spending my holiday here in tropical Eastbourne.  Furthermore, an ambulance will be here soon so kindly gather up my shaving things and a toothbrush.  This afternoon you can come and visit me and bring an enormous bunch of grapes and we’ll discuss Thailand.  You and Colin can certainly go and you can both write to me every day and twice on Sundays.”
George went to gather his brother’s belongings.  The doctor, slightly baffled at our light-hearted chatter during an emergency, sipped his tea before sitting at a table to write a report for the hospital.  John lay quietly in bed and decided an illness was positively no reason to stop his brother and Colin going on holiday.  Besides, he thought, the doctor could have made a mistake.
A siren wailed in the distance.  George returned carrying a holdall.
“Here are your things,” he said, “and I’ll visit you this afternoon with one grape.”
“I don’t think that would be wise,” intervened the doctor, “as the nurses will be very busy with him.  He won’t be allowed any visitors, I’m quite sure.”
“Right, I’ll come tomorrow and take your temperature.”, George compromised, “Make sure you’re there.  I may bring two grapes, one for each of us.”
The doctor scribbled a few more notes and finished his cup of tea just as the front door bell rang.  George showed the two ambulance crew in and the doctor whispered to one of them; “Coronary,” but John heard him.
“Chicken-pox,” he whispered loud enough for George to hear.
“Chilblains,” whispered George.  We often made light of any mishaps.
Moments later John was whisked off to the hospital where he spent four days in intensive care followed by ten days in the medical ward.  His brother visited him most days until he and Colin departed on their collecting trip to Thailand.  Had the holiday been cancelled, Colin would have been very disappointed, having saved up and looking forward to it for so many months.  Furthermore, the Zoo would have received no animals from us that year.  As it turned out, the holiday proved highly successful and confirmed Colin as a most efficient collector; indeed, he so enjoyed himself that a second trip to Thailand was planned.
*		*		*		*		*		*		
Late in 1977 all three of us embarked on that second visit, but this time accompanied by a fourth member, Anthony Julian-Ottie.  John knew him well, having taught him at Clark’s College, Finchley.  His particular interest lay in stick insects and praying mantises which he kept and bred at his home and sometimes put on display at the annual Amateur Entomologists Society’s exhibition in London.  When John offered him the chance to take part in a collecting trip to Thailand, he rushed off home to discuss it with his parents and accepted the following day.
He would be good company for Colin and they could share a room, thereby saving expense.  The Zoo would be happy with new varieties of stick-insects and mantids.
So it came about that four of us climbed aboard a Thailand Airways plane and flew into Bangkok for a brief stay before moving to the Khao Yai National Park, some 200 kilometres northeast of the capital.  With a tried and tested and now experienced herpetologist and a keen young budding entomologist, we were hopeful of amassing a varied assortment of animals to re-stock the Reptile and Insect Houses at London Zoo.
Khao Yai is a little known park covering half a million acres of forest and grassland.  It is home to elephant, tiger, bear, gaur which is the Asian equivalent of the African buffalo, deer and several smaller species including gibbon, mongoose, squirrel and bats.  Despite the presence of dangerous big game animals, visitors are permitted, indeed encouraged, to wander about on foot and to use the many trails leading to waterfalls and picnic areas.  There is even an 18-hole golf course in the park; true, there is a warning notice for all to see.  It reads: Beware of golf balls.  Not a word about tigers and elephants!
On a grassy slope overlooking a lake a small village of bungalows provided comfortable accommodation for visitors and an attractive circular glass-sided restaurant catered for those who preferred to eat out.  We had no intention of cooking although each bungalow had its own kitchen complete with refrigerator.  It was in the restaurant where we were enjoying a curry that we met an American birdwatcher who told us a story.  About a month ago he and his ten year old son were visiting the park and one evening as they walked over to the restaurant the boy boasted that he would run ahead, sprint once round the circular building and still be inside it before his father reached the entrance.
“Just keep walking, Dad and I guess I’ll beat you to it.”
It was not to be.  As he ran round the back of the restaurant where the open grass gave way to a patch of forest, he suddenly came face to face with a tiger! Both he and the tiger were so startled by the unexpected confrontation they instinctively ran off in opposite directions, the tiger back into the forest, the boy back into his father’s arms where he remained, trembling, shocked and unable to speak.  He was so white-faced and terrified his father held him firmly and patiently waited to learn what had happened.  It was fully ten minutes before the boy was able to talk and then only in whispered spasms.  No boy could put on an act like that; his Dad knew he was telling the truth.
We listened to the story with interest.  One of the park wardens had told us that he estimated there were about a hundred tigers in the park, but they seldom came anywhere near the bungalows.  So many deer roamed all over the park that the big cats never went hungry and generally kept to the more remote areas.  Perhaps that particular tiger had been attracted to the vicinity of the restaurant by the smell of a Thai curry wafting from the windows.  However, the event was recent enough for us to warn Colin and Anthony never, but never, to wander off on their own.  It is the easiest thing when chasing after flying insects to chase that little bit too far and then to find oneself alone.
Yet it happened.  It was during the late afternoon on our last day in the park.  We had all been out collecting, having followed a track from the bungalows for about half a mile into an area of scrub and grassland bordering a stretch of forest.  There we sat on a dead tree trunk and rested for a while.  We twins watched a flock of bee-eaters through our binoculars; Colin amused himself by probing beneath the bark of the dead tree; Anthony had spied a praying mantis.  Slowly he crept towards it, then reached out a hand to grab it, but the mantis flew off into a patch of tall grass.  He went after it and we heard him call out.
“I’ve got it and there’s another one.”
We were still busy watching the bee-eaters flitting back and forth.  They too were chasing insects and chasing them far more gracefully than Anthony.
Moments later John called to Anthony. “Have you caught the other one?”
There was no reply.  John called again, louder. “Anthony, where are you?”
Still no answer. “Anthony!” shouted John.
George stopped birdwatching and Colin stopped probing.  We all yelled and several green pigeons flew off in alarm.  We too were alarmed by now.
“Did anyone see where he went?” asked George.
“I never saw him go,” Colin replied. “I was too busy peering under the bark.”
“And we were watching bee-eaters,” added George.
Said John, “I heard him call out but never saw which way he went.”
There was a moment of silence as we all struggled to think what best to do.
George was the first to speak. “Suppose I go back to the bungalows to see if by any chance he has made his way back there.  I suspect he may have gone back the moment he found he was on his own.  If he’s not there, I’ll find a warden and bring him out here, if necessary with a search party.  You wait here in case he turns up here.  I’ll be back before long so don’t wander off.”
It seemed a sensible suggestion, even though George would be on his own for a while, but none of us could think of any further action we could take, apart from yelling ourselves hoarse and this Colin and I continued to do as George made his way back to the bungalows, also shouting every now and again.  I knew Anthony well enough to realise he was a sensible boy and would certainly try to find the bungalows as soon as he knew he was lost.  He only had to find the track and to follow it.  But what if he had stumbled and had suffered an injury? Or suppose he couldn’t find the track and wandered deeper into the bush? John dared not contemplate the possibilities; that story of the boy and the tiger nagged his thoughts as he waited there with Colin.
The sun was sinking lower in the western sky; John estimated there was an hour of daylight left.  Our calling for Anthony occurred at longer intervals.
At length George returned with a warden. “Any sign of him?” he asked.
“None at all,” said John.
The warden addressed John. “No worry, sir, many visitors walk these trails.  They all lead to bungalows.  Go this way, go that way, all trails start at bungalows and finish at bungalows.  By now I think your friend back in bungalow.” He laughed and his voice was encouraging. “Come, I take you back to bungalow.”
We walked in the opposite direction from which we had come and we began to understand.  Apparently all the trails from the bungalows followed a circular route through the scrub and finished at the bungalow furthest away from ours.  This was confirmed as we followed the warden along the trail for a short distance.  It curved round and sure enough we soon saw some lights in the distance.  Within minutes we were in amongst the bungalows and quickly found our own.  To our relief we saw the light was on inside and knew Anthony must have returned.  As we barged in, there he was, sitting on his bed surrounded by plastic boxes.
“Ah, there you are,” he said calmly, “I’ve been waiting for you.  I’ve caught quite a lot of specimens and am sorting them out to put into different sized containers.  Have a look at these.”
Our immediate reaction was one of relief rather than anger or displeasure.  There was no need for the moment to show how concerned we had been for his safety.  We gathered round his bed as he picked up two plastic boxes.
“Tarantula spiders!” cried Anthony triumphantly. “I’ve put one in each box and a scorpion in here,” picking up another. “Then there are several giant millipedes in this container and about a dozen praying mantises, each in separate boxes.  Now I’m sorting out the beetles.  I found some smashing green ones, all shimmering and glossy.  Look at these!”
“Jewel beetles,” exclaimed Colin.  He and George had caught a few on their previous trip.  Jewel beetles, of which there are several varieties, must be amongst the most beautiful in the world.  Those which Anthony was holding up were a metallic golden green and sparkled as they reflected the light.  They really did look like pieces of jewellery.
Anthony’s haul gave us every reason to be highly satisfied and we decided merely to question him on his activities that afternoon.  We thanked the warden for his help and gave him enough to keep him drunk for a week.  Then John turned to Anthony and spoke to him in a kindly manner.
“Now, Anthony, we heard you calling out something about a praying mantis, but we were busy birdwatching at the time and didn’t see which way you went.  Then you called again to say you were going after another one, so what happened?”
Anthony cast his mind back. “Ah, yes, that’s right, I caught them both and then saw a third one which I chased for a bit but never caught it.  So I went back to you but somehow I must have followed the wrong trail.  There were so many trails, so I just followed one of them and before long I found myself back at the bungalows.  I thought it best, then, to stay around here as you had warned us never to wander off on our own.  On the other hand I didn’t want to sit around doing nothing so I wandered about outside and that’s where I found all these specimens.  I found some smashing stick insects too and more scorpions.”
“Well,” said John after a pause, “I would say congratulations are in order, even though you should not have gone so far chasing a praying mantis without ensuring we were in sight.  However, once you realised you were lost you did the right thing and followed a trail back here to the bungalows.  I’m not sure how it came about that you never heard us calling and yelling for you; I suppose you had gone a bit too far, but here you are now, safe and sound and surrounded by hordes of insects.  So nought out of ten for getting lost, but ten out of ten for using your common sense and a hundred out of a hundred for collecting so many creatures.  We didn’t collect a thing, but then we were all rather busy looking for you and wondering whether a tiger had had you for dinner! Did you see any tigers on your way back here”? It was a flippant question and received a flippant reply.
“Yes,” he replied, laughing, “there were two lying on the trail fast asleep, so I stepped over them.”
“Well done,” said John.  The incident was closed.

CHAPTER 16
St. LUCIA PARROT

Every year thousands of holiday makers are lured to the Caribbean islands by graphic descriptions in the travel brochures: golden palm-fringed beaches, shimmering turquoise sea, a tropical paradise, gardens ablaze with bougainvillea, bronze-skinned maidens bearing ice-cold drinks.
As far as we were concerned, however, there were other delights: tarantula spiders, Hercules beetles, giant centipedes, jungle scorpions and granulated toads.  These and other exotic creatures were on our list of souvenirs to bring back and present to London Zoo and as this was to be our twenty-first collecting trip we hoped to find something worthwhile.  We took with us our sister, Dorothy Dennison and a keen young student named Corin Millais.  He had been a student of John’s at High Trees School and was an enthusiastic and promising naturalist with a particular interest and concern in all matters relating to conservation.  He was also joyfully eager to spend time on a tropical island and to help collect a variety of animals for the Zoo.  Dorothy on the other hand made it very clear that she was going on holiday and would spend her time birdwatching.  She had no intention of crawling about on hands and knees searching for spiders and scorpions.  After all, she was well into her seventies.
Unfortunately for Corin, the first thing he collected was a painful sting from a sea-urchin.  It happened when we went swimming off St. Lucia soon after our arrival.  True to the travel brochures, the sea was shimmering turquoise and Corin was the first to plunge in.  The sea-urchin struck at once, so he was also the first out.  He gave a mighty yell and leapt out instantly, hobbling back on to the beach.  That cry of anguish attracted the attention of a young Caribbean boy who was passing by and who immediately came to help.  He was no more than ten years old but seemed to know exactly what to do.
“Stay there,” he called out, “I’ll go fetch lemon,” and off he ran to a nearby market.  Within minutes he was back carrying a bottle of lemon juice and a wad of cotton wool.  With the assurance of a Harley Street specialist, he deftly applied the juice to Corin’s swollen and painful foot and even as he did so the pain began to diminish although the swelling remained. “Pain will go,” the boy remarked, cheerfully, “and tomorrow your foot will be same size as other foot.” He smiled broadly as Corin thanked him, rewarded him handsomely and promoted him to Head Medicine Man.
We were slightly amused at the treatment meted out to Corin but not altogether surprised.  During our many years of travelling we had experienced the strange powers of some members of the local population when it came to applying certain cures for certain maladies.  Thousands of tropical plants that grow in the rain forests in South America, central Africa and Indonesia could benefit mankind if only they were known to the outside world, but those plants are known only to the forest dwellers and their healing properties are practised by so-called witch doctors.  We have always respected them, anal now Corin was learning to respect them too and their ‘alternative’ medicine.
We had chosen St. Lucia to be our first destination on this collecting trip.  It is one of the Windward Islands in the Caribbean, a string of islands that curve downwards towards South America and it is notable for its spectacular scenery, its forests and mountains, its banana plantations, its tranquillity and Paul Butler.  It will be remembered that Paul had accompanied us on previous trips and he was convinced that his future lay in working with animals, or to be more accurate, working for the conservation of wildlife.  Accordingly, he studied at the North-east London Polytechnic and during the course of his work and on his own initiative, he led a four-man team to St. Lucia to determine the status and distribution of one of the rarest birds in the world, the St. Lucia Parrot, Amazona versicolor and to recommend measures to protect it.  He estimated there were fewer than 100 parrots left in the wild and realised that immediate steps would have to be taken to ensure it did not follow the dodo into extinction.  His very full and detailed report was submitted to the St. Lucia government.
The following year he returned to the island and after informing the authorities of the urgency of his mission, he was appointed Conservation Advisor.  Under the Chief Forestry Officer, Mr. Gabriel Charles, M.B.E., Paul quickly established his forceful presence and put into practice his own recommendations.  He suggested new laws to increase the fine for shooting the parrot from a derisory sum of 48 Caribbean dollars to a massive 5,000.  He also proposed a large area of the forest to be declared a parrot sanctuary.  He personally visited virtually every school on the island and by means of talks, slide shows, posters, billboards, exhibitions and the production of a monthly newspaper for schools, he made it clear to every boy and girl attending that their parrot was one of the rarest birds in the world and that unless it were protected now, it would become extinct in the very near future.  He went on radio and television and wrote regular articles for the newspapers; he sent a small number of parrots to Gerald Durrell’s zoo in Jersey where they have since bred successfully; and he built and erected nest boxes to compensate for the damage caused by hurricane Allen when 40% of the forest was destroyed.  Paul himself was something of a hurricane the way he organised everything.
One of his most notable achievements was the creation of a three mile trail through the heart of the forest, thereby allowing small parties of tourists, mainly American, to amble leisurely through the jungle on guided tours.  The object of the exercise was to advertise the plight of the St. Lucia Parrot to a wider audience and introduce that audience to the many birds and species of trees and plants that may be found there.  Most visitors to the island would never dream of setting foot in a tropical forest, a habitat virtually unknown to them.
“I guess that was a real goddam ad-venture through snake-infested goddam jungle,” was how one intrepid American tourist described it as he emerged at the end of the trail, even though he hadn’t seen a single goddam snake.
As a result of those walks, twenty thousand Caribbean dollars are raised every year for conservation and thanks to Paul Butler’s determination and his bulldozing approach to encourage the islanders themselves to take pride in their own island and its wildlife, the numbers of parrots steadily increased over a period of nine years to about 250, probably as many as the forest will sustain.  It still remains a very rare bird, but its future is more secure.
It was natural of course for us to place the parrot top of our birds-we-hoped-to-see list and so Paul invited us all to spend a night in his jungle cabin and to search for the bird the following morning.  It must be stated that his cabin did not feature in the list of hotels and guest houses considered suitable for tourists.  However, it provided accommodation for Paul and for about 200 bats! We didn’t know that; nor did it occur to him that Dorothy was not accustomed to sleeping with bats.  However, by the time we all arrived on the scene it was already dark and too late to turn back.  We twins were quite used to living rough and were never too worried about spending a night with the minimum of comfort, especially if there was a possibility of seeing a rare bird.  Corin, not yet fifteen years old, was thoroughly looking forward to it.
So it was that we spent the night in Paul’s minus five-star shack and survived, together with the bats which scrambled about the roof making weird and eerie noises throughout the hours of darkness.  Whether Dorothy managed to sleep at all is doubtful, but bright and early the next morning Paul somehow managed to produce scrambled eggs on toast served up on enamel plates and coffee in tin mugs.
“Just a snack in a shack,” he remarked cheerfully.  We wondered whether The Good Food Guide would agree but our appetites were well satisfied.
Breakfast over, we then took to the trail through the forest which both Paul and Mr. Charles had constructed for the benefit of tourists.  Paul knew the best areas in which to locate the parrots and the best time to find them feeding.  At intervals along the trail he had installed rough home-made wooden benches for the benefit of weary foot-sore travellers and at one of these points he suggested we should sit and wait and watch.  Our view overlooked a wide valley which gave us a clear expanse to scan through our binoculars above the canopy.
“Right, we’ll stay here for a while,” he explained as we seated ourselves, “and with a bit of luck we may see a parrot or two flying across the valley in front of us.  There are a number of fruit trees down there and that’s where they will be feeding.  If we are very quiet, we may be able to hear them screeching before we actually spot any, so we’ll know roughly where to look.”
As we sat there on the bench, binoculars at the ready, we spotted other birds near the trail flying in and around the lower vegetation; Paul whispered the names of each species; they included two kinds of hummingbirds, a thrasher, bananaquits, a St. Lucia Oriole resplendent in its startling black and orange plumage and a flycatcher; a hawk circled high in the sky.  He also named some examples of the lush vegetation of the island: tree ferns, a clump of heliconia, orchids sprouting unexpectedly halfway up the trunk of a lofty tree.  To sit quietly in a tropical forest, listening to the variety of calls and sounds from far and near, is a memorable experience for any naturalist.  It was a new experience for Corin and he was entranced.
“Ssshhhsss!” Paul cautioned suddenly, finger to his lips.  We all heard the unmistakable squawking of parrots in the distance; it became louder as they moved closer and the squawking subsided as they apparently settled in a tree to feed, still out of sight.  We sat there, tense and impatient for even a glimpse of one of these extremely rare birds now so tantalisingly close to us but still invisible.
Then, suddenly, there was a beating of wings and a crescendo of squawks.
“There they are!” Paul whispered loudly as a pair of St. Lucia Parrots flew low down across the clearing in front of us, wings beating with that distinctive shallow movement so typical of Amazon parrots.  There was no mistaking them for it is the only species of parrot found on St. Lucia, but in a flash they had disappeared into the foliage of the canopy, leaving us with the memory of one of those cherished moments so beloved by all dedicated birdwatchers; the moment of sighting a rare bird for the first time.  No matter that we had seen those two birds for just a few seconds; no matter that we never saw them again.  Our main object in visiting St. Lucia at all was to see the parrot in its natural habitat and this we had achieved, thanks to Paul.
Although we had experienced such moments before, it was for Corin the first time ever and it might well have inspired him to devote his working life to the cause of conservation.  He obtained a degree in Rural Environmental Studies; he returned to St. Lucia, voluntarily and worked for their National Trust, helping in the management of a national park; and whilst there he also assisted in a survey for the World Wildlife Fund - US on Maria Island just off the coast to rediscover some very rare lizards and the world’s rarest snake, Dromicus ornatus.  He later went to Australia where he organised conservation work for government departments and to Uganda as Conservation Educator at a field station in Kibale Forest.
It has long been our wish for any students who have accompanied us on our collecting trips to branch out on their own and work for conservation in their own right.  Paul Butler and Corin Millais are two shining examples.
During our visit to St. Lucia, another Caribbean island hit the headlines of the world’s press.  St, Vincent, next door and barely 30 miles to the south, also happens to possess an equally endangered parrot, but it was not the parrot that made the news.  It was a volcano which erupted early one morning with an almighty explosion, discharging enough volcanic ash to cover the entire island and to spread to other islands in the Caribbean.  We had heard a distant rumble and looked out to sea in the direction of St. Vincent where we could plainly watch a huge plume of smoke and dust and ash drifting upwards into the sky.  We were staying at the time in a small hotel with Dorothy and Corin before flying on to our next destination, Tobago, later in the morning.  Our plans didn’t quite work out, however.  Before going in to breakfast, Dorothy telephoned the local airport to confirm the time of departure of our plane, only to learn that no planes were available and all flights had been cancelled.  The entire fleet of islands local planes operating between the various islands had been diverted to St. Vincent.  Many of the inhabitants were fleeing their homes and seeking refuge on neighbouring islands and every available plane was needed to take part in a giant rescue operation.  We were stranded.  Nor could we extend our stay in the hotel for our rooms had been booked by other visitors.
“I have an idea,” suggested Corin. “Why don’t we spend another couple of nights with Paul back in his hut in the jungle? I don’t think anyone would have booked in there.”
Dorothy raised her hands in alarm. “You can if you like,” she retorted, “but I shall be booking in at a hotel that does not have bats in the roof.” She emphasised the negative.
John followed with a more practical suggestion. “Let’s go into breakfast and we’ll discuss what to do over a poached egg.”
Breakfast was served on the verandah and we all agreed that the plight of the inhabitants of St. Vincent was obviously far more important than our own holiday plans.  We would have to forego our visit to Tobago at least for the time being, even though we had rooms booked there through the generosity of a Mr. Skinner whose children, Rosemary and Christopher, had also been taught by John at High Trees School, as Corin had.
“What a pity,” moaned John. “I’m sure Mr. Skinner would have booked us into the poshest hotel.  I was looking forward to living like a lord for a change.”
As he aimed his fork at the very centre of his poached egg, he felt a tap on the shoulder.
“Mr. Newmark, I believe?”
“I believe you’re right,” said John, surprised at hearing his name called.  Looking round, he beheld a young man clad in a pair of shorts, an open-necked shirt and a cravat.  Obviously on holiday, thought John, scanning him up and down, yet he was reminded of a fighter pilot for some reason.  There was a certain dash and panache about him.
 “You probably won’t recognise me,” the stranger explained, “but we have met once or twice at school.  My name is Knowles and you used to teach my two daughters.”
“But of course,” said John hurriedly in an effort to give the impression he knew all the parents of all the children he taught. “Fancy meeting you here of all places.  What a small world!”
Small indeed; St. Lucia is a small island, 27 miles by 14, a mere dot in the ocean.  One hardly expects to meet an acquaintance on a mere dot.
“It is extraordinary,” agreed Mr. Knowles. “You must be here on holiday.”
“Yes, we are.  Oh, let me introduce my sister, Mrs. Dennison; and my twin brother, George; and Corin Millais.  Corin was also at High Trees and I believe you he knew your daughters, didn’t you” John asked, turning to Corin.
“Yes, I remember Jessica and Katie, though we weren’t in the same form,” he replied.
Having introduced everyone, John took a mouthful of egg before it became stone cold and then found it impossible to talk.
Dorothy came to the rescue. “Are you also on holiday?” she asked addressing Mr. Knowles.
“No, as a matter of fact I’m not,” he replied. “I happen to be working here, though for the moment I am temporarily out of a job.  I normally train young men to fly.  We are getting more and more tourists visiting St. Lucia and the other Caribbean islands and we need more pilots to fly the local aircraft from island to island.  Island hopping, we call it.  As a pilot myself, I have to train them, but at present all our planes have gone off to St. Vincent to evacuate the people over there.  Have you heard about the volcano erupting?” a rumble
“Yes,” George replied, “we heard a rumble and saw the smoke and dust from our window.  Do you know how bad it is?”
“I understand it’s a major eruption’” Mr. Knowles told us in ominous tones, “and it may go on for some days.  I hope you weren’t planning to go there.”
“No, but ... “ Dorothy’s voice showed a measure of concern. “Well, we are supposed to be flying to Tobago today where we have hotel accommodation booked, but when I phoned the airport to confirm our flight they told me all flights have been cancelled as there are no planes available.  Do you know anything about boats? Are there any that go to Tobago?”
Mr. Knowles was deep in thought. “Ah,” he pronounced at length, striking an encouraging note, “I may just possibly be able to help you.  If you’ll excuse me I’ll see what I can arrange.” With that and a hopeful smile, he departed briskly.
“What a bit of luck,” blurted out Corin, “not just meeting him like that, but that he should be a pilot of all things.  I mean, he could have been anything, a bank manager, a company director, or something in the city.”
“In that case,” interrupted George, “he would have been wearing a bowler hat.”
“And carrying an umbrella,” John added.  Our general laughter indicated our relief at the prospect of reaching Tobago after all.
It was late morning when Mr. Knowles contacted us again.
“I have good news,” he said. “A plane from St. Vincent will be flying in this afternoon or early evening, landing at Vigie Airport.  Vigie is that tiny airport in the north of St. Lucia, so if you can be there by about two or half past two, you can pick up your tickets there and then just wait for the plane to arrive.  It will drop some passengers off, then you all board the plane which will then fly on to Barbados where more passengers will be landed.  It could be there for half an hour so there will be time for a cup of tea if you feel like it.  Then finally it will take you on to Tobago.  Rather a round about route, I’m afraid, but at least you will have got away and I can promise you will be in Tobago before the day is out.”
 “We are most grateful, Mr. Knowles,” said Dorothy, speaking for all of us, “for all the trouble you’ve taken, especially with this emergency on.  I do hope nobody will have to stay on St. Vincent a bit longer on account of us.  We do appreciate they must be given priority.”
“Not at all,” Mr. Knowles assured us.  The plane you will be catching will be landing at Vigie anyway and then going on to Barbados with several empty seats, so you are actually helping out the airline by filling those seats, or four of them anyway.  I’m just glad I’ve been able to arrange it.  So do have a good journey and enjoy the rest of your holiday.  Please excuse me once again and good luck!”
“Cheerio and many thanks,” we all called out.
We returned to our rooms to pack and later in the morning had a quick snack before taking a taxi to Vigie Airport.  Here we collected our tickets and waited until mid-afternoon when a tiny plane belonging to Leeward Island Air Transport landed on the runway which was sandwiched between two busy main roads parallel to it.  It taxied to a halt near the control tower and five or six passengers stepped down on to the runway, carrying their baggage.  Without any formalities whatever we climbed on board with our luggage, a steward closed the door behind us and almost before we sat down the plane took off.  It was rather like a number 16 bus stopping at Marble Arch to let people on and off and it would have come as no surprise if a conductor were to walk down the aisle calling, ‘any more fares, please.’ As the plane gathered speed on the runway, traffic on either side of us gave the impression that we were tearing along the M1.  However, to be fair it must be said that Vigie Airport is perfectly adequate for local air services.  Another airport of international standards is located in the south of the island, so long may Vigie remain cosy and homely and tiny.
Less than an hour later the plane landed on the runway at Barbados and the remaining few passengers alighted.  We decided it was time for a cup of tea and Corin stepped off the plane first. “Volcanic ash!” he exclaimed as he walked on the tarmac. “It has blown all the way from St. Vincent a hundred miles away.”
Sure enough, a film of grey ash covered the ground and we had to crunch our way to the terminal buildings.  Just as we entered, a voice over a loud hailer informed us that our plane to Tobago would be departing in one minute.  We tore back over the ash and clambered aboard once more and before we had time even to fasten our seat belts, we were airborne, heading south for Tobago.
As Mr. Knowles had promised, we arrived there before the day was out; and as the travel brochures had promised, bronze-skinned maidens brought us ice-cold drinks within minutes of landing.  Tobago instantly became our favourite Caribbean island, but whether that was due to the maidens or to the drinks is neither here nor there.

CHAPTER 17
SNAKE CHARMER CHARMED

On our 1980 collecting trip to Morocco we were accompanied once again by Colin Fitzsimmons and a friend of his, Victor Crew, who was quite prepared to catch the collecting bug.  He was fourteen years old and had recently achieved a measure of fame by winning first prize in a national collage competition organised by the Observer Newspaper colour supplement for its younger readers.  His collage subsequently went on tour and was put on public display in the main concourse at Euston Station in London, then on to Birmingham, Glasgow, Manchester, Aberystwyth and Dublin.  His prize was a camera, so when Colin happened to mention casually that he would be going to Morocco in a few weeks time and suggested he, Victor, might like to go too, Victor rushed home to seek the approval of his parents.
“It would give me a perfect chance to try out my new camera,” he explained, hoping they wouldn’t suggest he might try it out in the back garden.
Mr. and Mrs. Crew were understanding and considerate.  After all, their son had won a national competition and deserved a substantial reward.  Besides, school exams were looming on the horizon; might not a trip to Morocco help him in a geography paper, they wondered, or a science paper? John was Head of Geography at a Surrey boarding school and was bound to know something about the geography of Morocco which he could pass on to him.  Furthermore, both John and George were well-known amateur naturalists and Colin was an active member of his local herpetological society and had written a paper on snakes.  With such illustrious companions Victor would be in good hands and was bound to pick up some useful information, agreed his parents and so approval for their son’s trip was granted.  Victor promptly shot off to the nearest Army Surplus stores and bought himself a safari outfit.
In the fullness of time our flight to Morocco was booked.  Our base was to be Agadir which was now a popular holiday resort with a variety of accommodation for tourists ranging from 5-star luxury hotels to no-star questionable guest houses.  We settled for something midway between the two, a 3-star hotel within walking distance of the beach and the town centre.  It proved to be perfectly adequate with plenty of space in the bathrooms to house a collection of livestock.  As we intended spending most of the daylight hours in the great outdoors, an early breakfast and a late dinner would be sufficient to sustain us, with a banana or two for a midday snack.
Our first trip out of town was more in the nature of a reconnaissance rather than a collecting expedition and we chose to walk along the coast to the hill which dominates the resort.  This hill was the site of a severe earthquake some twenty years earlier in which 30,000 people were killed.  Now it was an open and desolate area of scrub and crumbling rocks with a few traces of bricks where houses once stood.  Ruins are likely homes for snakes and lizards, beetles and scorpions and as we scrambled over the rough ground and turned over the stones and rocks, numerous creatures were revealed.  We resolved to return to the site at a later date with an ample supply of plastic boxes.  This was our first day; time enough to start collecting in earnest during our second week by which time we would be acclimatised and nicely tanned.
Our reconnaissance over, we made our way back down the hill by road which in fact led to the summit for the benefit of tourists wishing to climb to the top from which they had a marvellous view of the countryside around, with the whole of Agadir spread out below them.  On our way down we met an Arab gentleman with a group of children chattering excitedly around him.  Like most of the Arab children they were dressed in ragged shirts and shorts, whereas the tall young man wore a dark brown djellebah, a fez and a snake.  The snake was a little difficult to see at first for it too was dark brown and as it was coiled round the man’s neck it appeared to be part of his djellebah.  However, on closer inspection one could see its scales and any animal with scales is bound to be of interest to Colin.  He examined it closely.
“That,” he declared “is a Montpellier Snake.”
The Arab looked pleased. “Yes, it ees a snake,” he agreed, smiling, “and it ees very poisonous, very most poisonous.  Do not go near snake.”
“Yes,” said Colin, “it is poisonous but it is not dangerous because it is back-fanged.  The fangs are at the back of its mouth, not in the front and certainly too far back to reach you.  So it is not dangerous.”
The Arab gentleman sat there listening, but as he obviously knew nothing about back-fanged snakes, Colin’s explanation had no effect on him and when he reached out a hand as though to touch the snake, the shocked Arab stood up quickly and stepped back out of reach.
“No, no, do not touch,” he cried in alarm, “it ees very most poisonous, most very poisonous.  If you touch snake, it will bite you and you will die.  Very most very poisonous.” His voice rose to a high pitch as he predicted the end of Colin.
Had Colin been just an ordinary tourist he would have recoiled in horror, mingled perhaps with a degree of admiration at anyone allowing a very most poisonous snake to encircle his neck.  However, Colin was not an ordinary tourist; he was a herpetologist who knew a thing or two about reptiles and had come to Morocco to capture snakes and other animals; nobody goes snake hunting without knowing something about them.
He reached into his haversack and extracted a well worn copy of A Field Guide to Amphibians and Reptiles.  Turning to the section on snakes, he found a coloured illustration of a Montpellier Snake and held it up for the Arab to study.  Curiosity encouraged that gentleman to step a little closer, albeit with some trepidation.  Colin also took a step towards him, close enough to allow the Arab to touch the book with a trembling hand.  The children also clustered around and peered at the picture, pointing to the coloured drawing with grubby hands.  We noticed they kept a safe distance from the live snake.
Colin pointed to the picture. “This snake is the same as your snake,” he told him, “and it is not dangerous.”
But the Arab wasn’t listening.  He was too intrigued with the book and had evidently never seen a field guide in his life.  He placed a finger on the picture as though he were feeling the scales.
“Thees snake same my snake?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied Colin, “this snake is the same as your snake.  You hold the book, I will hold the snake and then you will see them both together.  Here you are, hold the book.”
As the Arab took the book gingerly from Colin, Colin deftly removed the snake from its owner’s neck without further resistance.  He then held it close to the illustration to compare it.  The children, none of whom spoke English and had therefore understood nothing of the conversation, stood goggle-eyed as Colin held the snake in his own hands and for the first time he was able to estimate its length.
“About five feet, I reckon,” he told us. “Sometimes they grow to six.”
Up to that moment the Arab gentleman had enjoyed a reputation amongst the local population and amongst the tourists, as a snake charmer par excellence.  We wondered whether we were now causing him any embarrassment by showing him up in front of the children, but it seemed the thought never crossed his mind.  He was too intrigued with the book and handled it with the same reverence he might have shown to the Koran.  Turning over the pages he gasped every time he recognised illustrations of other creatures with which he was familiar; lizards, frogs, newts and other species of snakes.  Perhaps he realised by now that we were not the ordinary run-of-the-mill tourists.
“You know all these snakes?” he asked Colin.
“Yes,” he replied, giving us a wink, “we all know about all the snakes and all the other animals in the book.  We have come to Morocco to find some and if you know where we can find them we will give you money; we will pay you dirhams.”
Dirhams was something the children understood and just the mention of that one word brought smiles to their faces.  They could have been no more than ten or twelve but the prospect of earning some money did not escape them.  They were intelligent enough to realise they were about to enter into the world of finance and they began to jabber amongst themselves with some excitement.  With twenty years collecting experience behind us, we knew the value of local children when it came to searching for creatures.  George now intervened.
“Now listen to me,” he told the Arab in a commanding voice.  We will come back here in one week to find animals.  Are you here every day?”
“I am here every day,” he replied. “Every day I come here.  Many people come here and I show them snake.  It ees very most poisonous snake, I tell them and they are very most afraid, but I hold snake and I put it on my arm and on my head and people take photograph.  Then they give me dirhams, few dirhams, so I can buy food because I always hungry, very hungry.”
“Right,” George continued, “we will come back here in seven days and you and these four children can come with us to find beetles and spiders and other animals.  Do you understand? Do you understand beetles and spiders? Do you know what they are?”
John remembered he had some pictures in his pocket.  It saves a lot of time showing the natives pictures of the animals we need and we always carry a selection of drawings and photographs of them.  He selected several and passed them to the Arab and the children.
“These I have seen,” the snake charmer exclaimed, pointing to a picture of a cluster of desert beetles. “There are many here, many many.  I will find them now.”
“No, not now,” John said, firmly. “We will come back in one week and then we will all find some.  We have no boxes now, but next week we will have many.”
“I shall be here,” the Arab went on, “I here every day, but I am very much hungry now.  Please, give few dirhams as I am most very hungry.”
We both handed over some loose change to show willingness and gave a few coins to the children by way of encouragement.
“Tell the boys to be here next week,” said George, “and you will all have more dirhams.”
An outburst of babbling in Arabic amongst them indicated their pleasure at the prospect of becoming enormously wealthy.  Colin returned the Montpellier Snake to its rightful owner who handed him back his field guide.  Goodbyes and salaams were exchanged and we parted company.  For our part, we were thoroughly satisfied with the arrangements made for the following week and we proceeded on our way down the road, leaving the Arabs to ponder over their advance payment and the promise of riches to come.  The snake charmer himself would doubtless spend the next seven days continuing his life style as before, declaring to gullible tourists how very most poisonous his snake was and they would all take photographs to show to the folk back home and part liberally with their dirhams to the very much hungry snake charmer.  Everybody would be happy.
*		*		*		*		*		*
Seven days later our meeting took place as arranged.  We were laden with a few dozen empty containers, large and small, packed in holdalls and we hoped that by the end of the morning every container would be occupied by four-legged, six-legged, eight-legged, multi-legged and no-legged creatures for presentation to London Zoo.  The four Arab boys were eager to start their rise from rags to riches, but we first issued instructions to the snake charmer who passed them on in Arabic to the children.  We explained that there were four of us and four boys, so each boy would accompany one of our party.  The snake charmer would be in charge of the containers and would issue them as required.  Each boy was to search for any creature and place it into a box as directed by us, but it was made very clear that no boy was to handle any snakes or scorpions.  We would take care of all harmful animals.  Finally, we promoted the snake charmer to sergeant to give him a sense of responsibility.
We all then proceeded up the hill and the collecting began in earnest.  A number of tourists were already scattered in groups here and there and must have been somewhat perplexed at the sight of four mad Englishmen and four scruffily dressed urchins clambouring amongst the rocks and scrub, turning over every stone within reach and yelling in high pitched squeals every time they found a specimen; and, standing there directing operations, one Arab gentleman wearing a snake like a scarf, gesticulating wildly as he handed out empty containers to the children in exchange for full ones containing livestock.  He appeared to have promoted himself to brigadier for he was wearing a ragged turban with a piece of red material attached to it.  He kept up a constant flow of Arabic which of course meant nothing to us, but it seemed to encourage the children to work harder.  We four, each with a child in tow, had to follow them around; indeed, it would be more accurate to say that each child had one of us in tow.
From time to time a whoop of alarm indicated a scorpion or other venomous beast had been found and we, not they, captured it and consigned it to a suitable and secure box.
Altogether it took a little over an hour to fill every container and the exercise came to an end.  Colin had every reason to be pleased at having charmed the snake charmer in the first place by showing him his field guide.  Victor made excellent use of his camera so newly won and a photograph of him in Morocco was later published in the Young Observer section of the colour supplement of that Sunday newspaper.  We were both highly delighted at the result of that expedition which was our fourth to Morocco.  In total our trips to that part of North Africa yielded a satisfactory haul of livestock which included a dozen snakes, two dozen desert scorpions, thirty lizards and geckoes, Moroccan toads, a quantity of spiders, black widow species and tarantulas amongst them, an assortment of invertebrates which included over two hundred beetles in a variety of sizes and colour schemes and one rather strange looking animal which Victor had unearthed beneath a rock.  We had no idea what it was until we returned to London and handed over our loot to the Zoo.  There we learnt its true identity; an amphisbaen.  According to the Oxford English Dictionary, an amphisbaen is a ‘fabulous serpent with head at each end.’ It was evidently some sort of legless lizard named from a Greek word meaning ‘go both ways’ although the moment Victor spotted it under that rock it went only one way, straight into a container.
As for the Arab gentleman with his very most poisonous snake draped, round his neck, we guessed he retained his self-imposed rank of brigadier and hoped he was no longer very much hungry.  He had certainly earned his overtime pay.  The four children too earned theirs and as likely as not bought themselves something more up-market in the way of tee-shirts and shorts to replace the tattered remnants they had worn, remnants which would have fallen apart had they been washed.
Perhaps the snake which seemed content to spend its life in a most unnatural habitat came off best of all, not in financial gain nor in worldly possessions, but in pride and dignity.  It was no longer just a snake.  Thanks to Colin, it was now blessed with its full name, Malpolon monspessulana.

CHAPTER 18
KNOCK KNOCK

We have always rejoiced in our good fortune at having been born identical twins, so when one of us, John, had a heart attack during that very hot summer of 1976, George half expected his turn would come sooner or later.  We had planned a collecting trip to Thailand that year and less than two weeks before we were due to fly out, John was forced to spend his holiday in St. Mary’s Hospital, Eastbourne, whilst George and Colin Fitzsimmons went beetle-hunting in old Siam.
George was a little more sensible.  He waited until we had arrived in Malaya on a collecting trip in 1982 before having his heart attack that first evening at a quarter past six.  He should have waited until after dinner, but never mind.  Once again we were accompanied by Colin and had flown to Kuala Lumpur to spend two or three days with Mr. and Mrs. Dalton-Stirling and their two children, Michèle and Justin.  John knew the children well, having taught them at High Trees School.  It was not the first time that boys and, girls from the school had a bearing on our choice of destination; in this case it was Malaya because the Dalton-Stirlings lived there.  In fact we had been there only the year before and the family had not only put up with us but had also put up with a wriggling collection of livestock.  It was truly noble of them to invite us again, but then Mr. Dalton-Stirling was a Government Officer working in the Foreign Office and Members of the Diplomatic Corps are a noble breed.
On this occasion their nobility was stretched even further.  Whether it was the effect of the long flight to Malaya, or the general excitement of being there again, we shall never know, but within a short time of our arrival at their home in Kuala Lumpur, George felt unwell.  A doctor was called; there followed a brief examination and he pronounced George to be the victim of a heart attack.  As John had done six years earlier, George protested and said it was a tummy-ache.  However, the whole family went into action.  Father telephoned a hospital and made arrangements for George’s admission.  Mother prepared the car and propped up pillows and cushions in the back.  Justin and Michèle helped with the packing of various items of clothing and other belongings which George would need and within a matter of minutes he was whisked away to the Assunta Hospital where he found himself in the very capable hands of Mrs. Janet Ong.
Mrs. Ong had never had a patient quite like George.  First, although he was English, he could speak Malay, having lived in the country for nearly twelve years.  Second, for a patient with a heart attack he was unusually cheerful and expressed his intention of birdwatching from the balcony outside his ward on the second floor.  Justin had had the good sense to pack his binoculars, so George was able to pursue his hobby to his heart’s content, despite that organ having had a mishap.  Furthermore, he persuaded other patients to take up birdwatching too and indeed some of the nurses.  Both of us had always been keen to involve others in anything concerning nature; to acquaint them with the names of their local birds was a first step towards taking an interest in the bird life around.  His admission to hospital gave him a ready made audience with little to occupy their minds and they soon learnt to recognise the common birds that flew about the trees visible from the balcony; orioles, starlings and bulbuls.  He carried on with his role as instructor throughout his two weeks residence in the Assunta hospital and the Staff were convinced he had started a new hobby amongst the patients and quickened their recovery.
*		*		*		*		*		*
In the meantime, I (John), together with Colin spent two more days with the Dalton-Stirling family who very kindly drove us each day to Petaling Jaya, several miles from Kuala Lumpur, where the hospital was situated.  Mrs. Ong herself nearly had a heart attack when she first saw me walking into the ward and thought I was George! I quickly assured her I was John and had come to visit my twin brother and within minutes half the hospital Staff flocked into the ward to stand and stare at us, whispering and giggling amongst themselves.  Twins are quite rare in Malaya and British twins almost unknown, so to have a pair on display was an occasion not to be missed.  We quite enjoyed being a rarity.
Naturally we discussed our plans for the holiday.  George of course would have to stay in situ for the time being and it was agreed that Colin and I would carry on with our collecting according to plan and as though nothing had happened.  It was exactly the same situation that had occurred when I had had a heart attack and George and Colin went to Thailand.  It could be called a coincidence, but I wonder.  However, I was satisfied that he was in excellent hands and I would telephone daily.
So in due course Colin and I set off by taxi to a tiny village called Tembeling situated on the Tembeling River.  Here we picked up a boat to take us to the Taman Negara National Park.  Our baggage included nets, insect repellent, tummy tablets and about sixty containers.
Taman Negara must be one of the wildest and most remote national parks in the world.  We had had to book our accommodation two months before leaving England to ensure we would find a boat.  The park is accessible only by boat and booking ahead does ensure us a place in the boat and a bed in the park.  The river trip is quite an adventure in itself.  Dense jungle on either side can be slightly forbidding.  The journey takes between three and four hours, depending on the depth of the water and that depends on the rainfall.  Along the 37 mile course are a number of shallows and rapids; if the water level is low, passengers are requested to disembark and wade into the shallow water while the crew manhandle the boat.  We were spared this ordeal although we would not have minded a paddle.  The boat held about a dozen passengers, all destined for the park; most were young and carried camping equipment.
After our somewhat tiring journey in the hottest part of the day, we pulled in at a jetty beneath a high bank.  The passengers disembarked, manhandling their baggage and then found they had to stagger up 80 steps to reach the park headquarters.  Walking up 80 steps with nothing to carry is no mean task; but we had to face that climb with two holdalls each, cameras, tripods, tape recorders, all our collecting equipment and in a temperature hovering around 85 degrees Fahrenheit and maximum humidity.  We did wonder whether we should ever have bothered! However, with much puffing and blowing and heaving and grunting, all of it from me, we finally reached the summit which consisted of a flat strip of grassland about the length of two football pitches and one pitch wide.  This was the location for the Headquarters, a number of bungalows, Reception, a restaurant and some administrative offices.  We reported to Reception and were handed the keys to our allotted accommodation to which we made our way.  It turned out to be a single story brick building with four bedrooms, each furnished with two beds and two chairs; there was a bathroom leading off and a verandah all round.  Our room was the second from the end; the other three were already occupied.
“This looks alright,” I said to Colin as we entered. “Ah, that’s good, I see we have mosquito nets.”
“Mosquito nets?” remarked Colin in the form of a question. “I’ve never used a mosquito net in my life.  When we go to bed do we just let the net hang round us?”
“Not quite,” I explained. “They do hang round us but you have to tuck them in under the mattress and the most important thing is to make certain there are positively no mosquitoes inside the net, otherwise you will spend all night in the company of a mozzi which will spend all night feeding and fattening on you.”
George and I had slept under nets during two years soldiering in India, so we were well accustomed to it.
“So remember,” I added, “the whole idea of a mosquito net is to keep them out, not in.  That reminds me, don’t forget to take a malaria tablet.”
“Oh yes,” said Colin, “thanks for reminding me.”
I decided to unpack a few things and then have a bath.  After that river trip and having to stagger up a million steps, I needed to relax in a hot bath for a week.  Colin also unpacked but decided to have a bath later.
“I won’t be long,” I called out as I disappeared into the bathroom with a towel and soap.  Two spiders and a beetle were occupying the bottom of the bath, but fortunately I saw them before turning on the tap.  They were doing their best to climb out but kept slipping back down, so I gave them a helping hand, not wishing to share my bath with them.  I prefer to be the only occupant of a bath tub.  Having rescued them, I then turned on the tap.  A gurgling sound issued from the depths of the plumbing but no water; not a drop.  In such primitive surroundings I was not too surprised, but a sudden muffled yell from next door certainly did surprise me.  That yell was followed by a sharp knock on our front door and in burst the occupant of number one bedroom next door.  I recognised him as one of the passengers on the boat.
“Hey!” he called out in a state of agitation. “My bath water is running!”
I poked my head round the bathroom door. “Then why don’t you turn it off?” I suggested.
“I haven’t turned it on,” he wailed.
“Oh, maybe I did,” I told him in a soothing tone. “Hang on a minute; I’ll turn my tap off and you nip back and tell me if your water stops running.”
That did the trick.  As I turned my tap off, his high pitched voice could be heard shouting.  Then he came round to us again, this time smiling.
“Now listen to me,” I said, “will you go back to your room and turn on your hot tap.  I have a suspicion my water will run when you do so and if it does, please leave it on until I tell you to turn it off.”
My suspicions were correct.  The water flowed in fits and starts into my bath and when it was deep enough I shouted to him to turn it off.  It stopped.  So that was it; somewhere down in the depths the pipes must have been wrongly fitted.  It meant that every time either Colin or I wanted to enjoy a bath, we had to rely on our neighbour to turn it on and vice versa.  Colin couldn’t stop laughing when he realised that his bath depended on whether the neighbour was at home or not, but then he was less experienced than I with the vagaries of plumbing in the tropics.
“I hope he won’t want to have a bath at two o’clock in the morning,” he remarked ruefully.
“Don’t worry,” I told him, “I’ll turn on the cold tap.”
Apart from the peculiarities of the plumbing, the accommodation was satisfactory, bearing in mind our location.  George had visited the park some twenty years earlier when it was called the King George V National Park.  In his day there was just one rest-house.  Now there was accommodation for about 200 visitors, though many of them brought their own tents.  This tiny outpost of civilisation is situated on the west bank of the Tembeling River and is the entry point to the national park which covers over 4,300 square kilometres of tropical rain forest, pure virgin forest, the tallest in the world and the oldest.  It has been there for an unimaginable one hundred million years and it comes close to every schoolboy’s dream of dense, dark, steaming jungle with creatures lurking behind every tree and 20-metre long snakes ready to pounce.  Well, not quite, but schoolboys may be inclined to exaggerate slightly.  Even so, Malaya does hold the record for one of the world’s longest snake, a 10 metre reticulated python.
Aborigines roam the park with blowpipes and darts, but otherwise the forest is virtually uninhabited and unexplored.  Wildlife is similar to that in the Khao Yai National Park in Thailand, but Taman Negara is altogether larger and wilder and visitors are less likely to see the more spectacular animals such as tiger, elephant and gaur.  However, huge monitor lizards two metres in length are quite common near the river and over 250 bird species have been recorded.  Amphibians abound, much to Colin’s delight; there is an abundance of insects and leeches by the million are waiting to attach themselves to anyone who moves off the trails, as Colin found out when we went off on our first venture into the forest.
From our headquarters several trails led off in different directions for the benefit of visitors wishing to penetrate the jungle in their search for wildlife; birds and butterflies are a favourite target.  Anybody may walk for short distances unescorted, but for longer walks they are advised to take a guide.  We were going no more than half a mile or so just to savour the atmosphere and we set off in high spirits, binoculars at the ready.  My favourite habitat and George’s, has always been the rain forest and I could see that Colin too was relishing this, the oldest rain forest of all.  Barely two minutes along the trail from headquarters a magnificent fireback pheasant crossed the track just yards ahead of us.  I held up my hand, slowly, to caution Colin to stand still.
“Did you see it?” I whispered.
“Yes, it looked like some sort of pheasant; I wonder where it went.”
Before I could stop him, Colin took a few paces into the jungle, hoping to catch another glimpse of the bird.
“Colin! Come back at once!” My voice was no longer a whisper; it was an order and he very sensibly obeyed it.  He had gone no more than a couple of yards, but I suspected at least one leech would have found him.
“Now then, Colin, would you kindly pull up your trousers legs.”
“Pull up my trouser legs?” he queried.
“Yes, pull them both up to your knees.”
As he did so, one leech was revealed on his left shin and two on his right.
“Oh dear,” he called out in alarm, “they’re having a banquet! What do I do?”
“I’ll tell you what not to do,” I said and there was a certain urgency in my voice, “Do not, repeat, not brush them off.  The easiest way to remove them is to sprinkle a little salt over them; they will drop off of their own accord.”
“Salt? I don’t walk around carrying salt,” protested Colin.
“Well, I would do so from now on.  I always do.” As I was talking I delved into a pocket of my bush shirt and extracted a small medicine bottle and unscrewed the cap. “Give me a leg,” I demanded and Colin raised his right one, steadying himself by clutching my arm.  He watched intently as I sprinkled a small measure of salt directly over the two leeches.  Both wriggled and squirmed before dropping to the ground.  I repeated the performance with his other leg.
“If you try to brush them off,” I explained, “they may leave their head embedded in your skin.  I’m not sure whether that is true but it’s better not to take any chances.  Anyway, keep to the trail now, otherwise you could become a three-course lunch for leeches by the dozen.  You only have to brush past some bushes and they’ll attach themselves to you without you knowing.  They will squelch their way to the nearest patch of bare skin where they will dine and wine and fatten.  It’s one of the hazards you have to endure if you toddle off into the jungle.  So always carry some salt.  When we pop into the restaurant for a meal, take a small container and fill it with salt.”
“Right and thanks for the warning.” Colin was learning.  He had been with us twice to Thailand and once to Morocco, but leeches were no problem in Thailand and there is no jungle in Morocco.
That evening as we sat in the restaurant after dinner we were discussing snakes and lizards and frogs and toads and salamanders when it became apparent that a gentleman sitting at the next table was listening to our conversation for he leaned across and asked politely if he might join us.
“Yes, of course,” I said.  He was a little older than Colin and spoke with a foreign accent.
“My name is Schroots, Buck Schroots,” he began, pronouncing his name as though he were gargling, “and I come here from Holland.” With that, he shook hands with a grip like a boa constrictor and my hand went limp.  He then went on to explain that he was on holiday and had come to Taman Negara to look for snakes, lizards and all the animals we had been discussing.  So for the next hour and a half he and Colin, the two herpetologists, did most of the talking about almost every known reptile in the world.  As an ornithologist, I was content to do most of the listening until at length, presumably when they had run out of reptiles to discuss, Buck Schroots shook hands with us again.  My own hand was still limp from the first time; now it became lifeless.
We departed to our rooms.  Colin had collected enough salt to smother an army of leeches and was prepared to do battle with each and every leech foolish enough to select him for a meal.  As he prepared for bed, he remembered he was due for a bath and called out to the neighbour. “Turn on the hot tap, please.” There was no reply, but we deduced he must have been in for the water flowed and Colin sang and soaked happily in somewhat muddy water.  Nevertheless, it was refreshing.  Then it was time for bed and after a quick check to ensure there were no mosquitoes lurking within our nets, we tucked them under the mattress and prepared for our first night’s sleep.  I personally wanted to stay awake for a while and listen to the many sounds and calls emanating from the jungle, but I was too weary.
“Good night,” Colin called, “and mind the mozzies don’t bite.”
“Good night,” I repeated “and if, by the way, you hear someone knocking nails into wood, don’t be surprised.  Good night.”
“What do you mean?” he asked in a puzzled manner. “Don’t tell me someone goes around at night knocking nails in.  What on earth are they doing?”
There was no time for a reply.  We both suddenly heard, very clearly, the sound of someone knocking nails into a plank of wood.  Chok-chok-chok; chok-chok- chok-chok-chok-chok-chok.
“John! What is it?”
“Well, I’ll tell you.  First of all, nobody is knocking nails into anything.  I agree that it sounds like it, but it is in fact a bird, a nightjar, a long-tailed nightjar to be exact.  You can still hear it and it could go on for hours.
The Chinese sometimes lay bets on how many ‘choks’ it will make without a pause.  It normally ‘choks’ three or four or five times, but quite often it will do so twenty or thirty times without a break, even longer, especially on a moonlight night such as tonight.  It will either keep you awake or send you to sleep.”
“It had better not keep me awake,” threatened Colin, “or I’l1 chuck a boot at it.”
“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” I said, now wide awake. “Let’s record it on tape.  It’s one of the bird calls I particularly want, so give me a hand and we’ll set up the tape recorder.  Then we’ll creep outside quietly; we don’t want to frighten it so we’ll tape it from the doorway.”
In the few minutes it took to prepare our equipment, the bird continued its strange, almost eerie call.  There was a tree stump between our bungalow and the jungle and I guessed it was sitting on that, so I opened the door very slowly and cautioned Colin to stay just inside with the machine whilst I held the microphone outside.  In the stillness of the night I captured a good five minutes of its remarkable and resonant call before the bird suddenly flew off.  It had been perched on the stump as I had suspected for I saw it, just a vague shape, as it flew away and in the same instant I discerned a movement beyond the stump.  A large animal had appeared in the clearing, probably a sambar which is the largest of Asian deer.
“Come outside, Colin,” I whispered, poking my head round the door.
He tip-toed out and stood with me on the verandah.
“Can you see an animal moving about over there?” I asked, pointing to it.
“Yes, it’s a deer I think.  Gosh, it’s huge!” In the moonlight it certainly looked pretty massive.  A full grown sambar stands almost five feet at the shoulder and with its huge spread of antlers it looks a rather fearsome beast.  Later we learnt that this particular animal and a number of wild boar make nightly forays into the clearing to feed on morsels thrown out by visitors to the park and there are always plenty of scraps in the vicinity of the restaurant.  Colin was duly thrilled at his first sambar and suggested we might move a little closer towards it, but quickly changed his mind.
“We might meet a tiger,” he whispered softly.
“If we do, I’ll leave you to deal with it,” I whispered back.
“In that case I’m going back to bed,” he quickly responded.
“Good idea,” I said. “We might hear the nightjar again, but this time we’ll let it chok undisturbed.  We’ve taped enough of it already.”
As we tucked our mosquito nets in for the second time we heard it chok in the distance, too far away to spoil a good night’s sleep.  I lay awake listening to other sounds for a short time; frogs and toads hooting and burping in a dozen different keys, a muntjac barking far away and cicadas buzzing stridently.  There were other calls too which mystified me.  So often in the past George and I had lain awake at night in some wild habitat and listened to the sounds of nature.  It is an exciting experience, yet strangely peaceful.
The next few days passed all too quickly.  I recorded some of the daytime jungle calls including the melancholy whoops of gibbons, the penetrating call of the argus pheasant and the bubbling song of the bulbuls.  Colin and Buck spent their recording sessions at night and many frogs and cicadas and other peculiar and unaccountable sounds were taped from the safety of a hide at the edge of the clearing.  It was virtually forbidden to use the jungle trails after dark and nobody would be foolish enough to wander out at night.
Each evening I was able to telephone the Assunta hospital and learnt that George was making good progress; indeed, on our last night in the park I was able to speak to him.  He thought he might be out of hospital in less than a fortnight and suggested Colin and I should continue with our original plan, which was to go on to Fraser’s Hill for a week and then return to Kuala Lumpur.  He sounded perfectly cheerful and I was greatly heartened to hear him and to comply with his suggestion about Fraser’s Hill, for I knew Colin would have been disappointed had we not been able to go there.
Our last morning at Taman Negara was spent packing our belongings for the boat journey back to Tembeling.  Our holdalls still contained numerous plastic boxes, but this time instead of being empty they were filled with an assortment of creatures and consequently had to be carried with care down those 80 steps and on to the boat.  As we journeyed down the river we were slightly saddened at the thought of leaving Taman Negara behind, but looked forward to a week in a totally different kind of rain forest.  Fraser’s Hill, 90 kilometres north of Kuala Lumpur, is comparatively civilised and easily reached by road from the capital.  The last 40 kilometres are uphill all the way through magnificent forest and the final stretch of eight kilometres from a turning off the main road is still tarmac and maintained in excellent condition.  It needs to be, for there are no less than 80 hairpin bends! For this reason the authorities have taken the very sensible precaution of enforcing a one-way only system for traffic; uphill during odd hours, downhill for even.
It became a hill station more by accident than design and might never have been developed at all had it not been for the mysterious disappearance of a slightly eccentric gentleman named Louis James Fraser.  He lived in a homemade shack somewhere in the jungle at the turn of the century and was sometimes seen operating a mule train and trading in tin ore.  There were no roads in those days so he evidently used forest trails to conduct his business.  Then he disappeared.  What became of him was and still is, anybody’s guess, but the Bishop of Singapore at the time, Bishop Ferguson-Davie, was bold enough to search for him though without success.  In tramping the mountains, however, the Bishop came to realise what a marvellous holiday resort the whole area could become.  At 1,500 metres above sea level the air was cool and refreshing and in total contrast to the hot and humid conditions of Singapore and the lowlands of Malaya, including Taman Negara.  So the Bishop contacted the right people and made the necessary recommendations.  Thus, over the years, Fraser’s Hill developed into the charming and attractive hill station it is today, boasting a neat English looking village at the summit with a post office, a pub, restaurants, laundry, a good hotel or two and a golf course.  From the village centre a number of tarmac roads radiate to widely scattered bungalows, some privately owned, others available to rent and it was in one of these well appointed brick built bungalows that Colin and I each sunk into a comfortable armchair after our long journey from the game park.  We noticed at once and welcomed the change of climate; in fact we found it a little on the cold side! We also noticed and welcomed Mrs. Jean Janes.  Mrs. Janes lived in Eastbourne and was the Secretary at St. Andrew’s School where I had run a bird club for four years.  Both George and I knew her well; her son, Alan, had accompanied us on a collecting trip to Sierra Leone in West Africa.  Maybe she had caught the collecting bug from him, but, be that as it may, she had arranged to meet us on this trip and in this cool and civilised holiday resort.  It was her first visit ever to a tropical country and it was her first trip ever to collect bugs and beetles! Yet in the course of that week she proved to be a worthy collector, chasing some highly elusive animals through the undergrowth as though she had done it all her life.  Certainly she had a little help from Colin and me, but she was perfectly capable of managing on her own and frequently did.  Amongst the haul we caught were specimens of the shiny black rhinoceros beetle, fierce looking three horned monsters fully nine centimetres in length and one of the world’s largest and heaviest beetles.  She also captured giant millipedes, chafer beetles and a mixed bag of tree frogs.  Each evening that week I telephoned the hospital and was able to speak to George and bring him up to date on our growing collection of livestock.  By now he was so much better and expected to be discharged from the hospital and back in Kuala Lumpur the day after we were due to return there and this in fact proved to be the case.  Our holiday should have ended then; Jean and Colin flew back to England, Buck Schroots had already returned to Holland, but I cancelled my flight home so as to stay on with George at the Dalton-Stirling’s home until he was fit enough to go.  So once again those noble and kindly souls, Mr. and Mrs. Dalton-Stirling together with Justin and Michèle, played host to us for another two weeks.  By then George had made a sufficiently good recovery to be able to fly the 7000 mile trip to Heathrow.  Before that, however, we both made a few trips to yet another rain forested area a half-hour car journey from Kuala Lumpur, together with Mrs. Dalton-Stirling.  She was entranced with the forest and with the abundant bird life to be found there.  So at least some good came from that heart attack; the immeasurable kindness of the Dalton-Stirling family, the care and attention of Mrs. Janet Ong and the Staff at Assunta Hospital and Mrs. Dalton-Stirling’s own appreciation of her introduction to the Malayan rain forest with its colourful birds, splendid butterflies and variety of exotic plants including a fortune in a profusion of orchids growing wild.  The bright lights of a city may be alluring, but so very artificial; the colours of Nature are more enticing and enduring.

CHAPTER 19
QUIET, PLEASE, THERE’S AN ELEPHANT

We first visited Sri Lanka in December 1970 with Paul Butler and a student named Rex Giles.  We had planned to spend from Christmas Eve till Boxing Day in Wilpattu National Park in the north of the island and it was on Christmas morning that Paul made an announcement.
“Listen, you lot,” he began, smiling, “I’m going to open a present which my mother gave me to share amongst all of us, so gather round.”
We were sitting on the balcony of our bungalow watching the wildlife, so we crowded round the one table and watched Paul as he unwrapped the paper to reveal a somewhat battered old tin.  With his sturdy penknife he prised open the lid and disclosed the contents: one large Christmas cake covered in icing, holly, Christmas decorations and about two million ants!
“Talk about ants in your pants!” exploded Paul in a high pitched voice, scattering a herd of deer grazing nearby. “We mustn’t tell Mum about this.”
Much of the cake beneath the icing had been reduced to crumbs and we looked at it ruefully, knowing it was ruined.  However, we consoled ourselves by sprinkling the contents far and wide over the grass and had the satisfaction of watching bulbuls, babblers, jungle crows and even a hornbill making quick work of Mrs. Butler’s once beautiful Christmas cake.  Doubtless some ants met a grisly end, but that was their fault.
We twins returned to Sri Lanka in 1983, this time accompanied once again by our sister, Dorothy Dennison.  One of our main destinations was the Ruhunu National Park, generally known as Yala.  We telephoned a Mr. Eustace Ranasinghe, a taxi driver, whom we had met on our first visit to the island.  Now, thirteen years later, we learnt that he was the proud owner of a fleet of taxis and he supplied us with his very best, a Mercedes, together with his most experienced driver, Mr. Singh.  Mr. Singh was a gem; he treated us as though we were royalty and took steps to ensure we had the best accommodation wherever we went.  He even became interested in the bird life of the country, knowing that we were.
Yala is all that a game park should be; wild, remote, unspoilt, uninhabited, with areas of forest, scrub, grassland and lakes.  The wildlife ranges from the ‘keep your distance’ variety -- leopard, elephant, buffalo, crocodile, -- to the ‘isn’t it sweet’ assortment of spotted deer, squirrel, tree frogs and almost any baby animal.  The Sri Lankan authorities have an enlightened policy for their game parks and reserves which are managed by caring and capable wardens.  They keep a watchful eye over the animals, especially newly-born creatures which may need a helping hand.  An orphan stands a good chance of survival.
Visitors to the park are asked to leave their cars at the entrance and to transfer to minibuses for a tour of the park.  So we had to abandon our very comfortable Mercedes and climb aboard a bus.  Fortunately we were the first passengers on and were able to occupy the front seats.  Dorothy sat in a single seat right in the front near the windscreen and level with the driver on her right.  George chose the window seat behind the driver, John a similar seat on the left and we immediately opened our windows wide.  We were thus in a position to take photographs of any wildlife on either side and through the windscreen ahead, even though we knew it would become somewhat dusty.  A dozen other passengers filled up most of the seats behind us and a game warden, a tall young man in a smart uniform, occupied a back seat which gave him an unobstructed view through the rear window as well as access to an emergency exit.
Once everyone was settled, the driver started the engine and we set off into the park along a dirt road.  For the first hour spotted deer outnumbered all other animals to be seen, but wild boar and troops of macaques added a little variety, as did some fair sized crocodiles known as muggers which we spotted basking beside a lake.  Peafowl were abundant.  A truly wild peacock stalking through the scrub is far more satisfying to watch than the smartest semi-domestic specimen strutting over the well-kept lawns of a stately home.
We were about halfway through the tour when we emerged from a patch of forest into open country and George suddenly called out, “Elephant!” In a second all heads turned to the right and there it was, one lone elephant enjoying a dust bath.  It was not far away, about the length of a football pitch.  The driver obligingly slowed to a halt.  Everyone fiddled and fumbled with their cameras or binoculars or both and surged over to the windows on the right, except John.  He knew that George would be photographing like mad on that side so there was no need to add to the crush.
Some minutes later, perhaps sensing that it was being watched, the elephant abandoned its dust bath and moved on towards an area of dense bush ahead which extended across the road.  Our driver now proceeded slowly in the same direction, keeping abreast of the elephant, but soon we were in amongst the trees and thick vegetation.  A bend in the road obscured anything that lay ahead and as we rounded the bend the driver pulled up sharply.  Standing in the middle of the road was another elephant, a much larger one with tusks and far too close for comfort.  The driver fiddled frantically with the gears to put the bus in reverse, calling to the game warden in Tamil to help guide him back round the bend.  We moved back slowly and in jerks, the warden motioning with his hand until he suddenly held his hand up.
“Stop! Stop!” he called in a muffled voice.  We all craned our necks and through the rear windows we could see yet another elephant on the road behind us.  The minibus was trapped, unable to move forwards or back.
A measure of apprehension was now evident amongst some of the passengers as the driver and the warden discussed the situation in Tamil, a language which rolls off the tongue at alarming speed in the calmest situation.  Right now it sounded like two machine guns.  Dorothy was too engrossed watching the elephant in the front to notice what was going on behind.  In all her 77 years of life she had never once given a thought to the possibility that she might one day be confronted by a wild elephant.
“Look!” she whispered excitedly, “another one has joined it!”
Sure enough, there were now two elephants ahead, waving their trunks in the air to test for any sign of danger.  The poor driver, frightened out of his wits, gabbled something to the warden who decided it was time to take charge.
“Please, all of you, “ he began in a shaky voice, “please close the windows and move to the back of the bus and please, you must not talk.  Be very very quiet, elephants not like noise.” He lowered his voice. “Move back everyone and sit very very still on the seats or on the floor and please, no talking.”
Thankful to have someone take charge, the passengers obediently closed the windows and moved slowly to the rear, squeezing into the seats or crouching down on the floor without a murmur, a few smiling nervously.  Dorothy whose seat was low on the floor anyway remained where she was.  We twins remained in our seats too but crouched down to make ourselves less visible and with our cameras at the ready.  We knew from experience that wild animals in game parks all over the world become used to vehicles and will tolerate them as long as they remain inoffensive.  We did concede that our particular situation was potentially dangerous, yet not one elephant had shown any sign of aggression.  We believed they were merely curious.  Consequently we saw no cause for alarm though we gave the warden full marks for taking precautions.  Dorothy, sitting in the front row of the stalls as it were, just sat there mesmerised.  She believed such intelligent animals were themselves showing curiosity in the presence of the vehicle and she was right.  The two beasts lumbered right up to the front of the bus, ran their trunks over the windscreen and gingerly felt the windscreen wipers.  The driver went into a coma.
By now it was difficult for us to take any more photographs; the elephants were too close.  We considered it was now wise to close our windows and did so in slow motion.  In the process, John saw three more elephants ten or twelve paces away and watched them plucking tufts of grass from the ground and clumps of leaves from the trees and bushes.  He realised at once that the minibus had been caught up in a herd of elephants moving in the opposite direction and going about their business peacefully and normally.  As long as the passengers remained quiet and still, John concluded, there was no reason for a single elephant to become alarmed, even if the passengers were.  He whispered to Dorothy to keep still and allow the elephants to amble by in their own good time.
The two in front, satisfied that the windscreen posed no threat, lumbered by, one on each side of the bus and brushing it with their flanks.  The bus shook; so did the people in it.  In all, seventeen elephants took the best part of twenty minutes to clear the area and melt away out of sight, feeding happily as they went.  It took about the same time for the driver to recover and once he realised the danger was past he joined in the general hubbub amongst the passengers.  Their relief was clearly evident.  The game warden too was relieved.
“I have been a warden for many many years,” he told us, “but this is the only time I see elephants touch bus.  Elephants never touch bus, only today, but they not angry.
Had they been angry, the story might never have been told.  Even only one elephant could flatten a minibus.
The game run continued without further mishap or adventure.  That evening, back in the rest house at Tissamaharama where we were staying, we discussed the events of the day, dwelling at length on those twenty dramatic minutes.
“Now that I have had time to think about it,” reflected Dorothy, “I should have realised we were in some danger, but I was so fascinated by those two elephants in the front I just forgot they were wild.  They weren’t aggressive, only curious, so I really had no reason to be frightened.  What about you twins? Were either of you worried or frightened when you each had an elephant walking right past your window?”
Our replies were simultaneous and in unison. “I felt like giving my elephant a bun,” we both said without hesitation.  Only identical twins could have produced such an unlikely answer.

CHAPTER 20
OUT OF BOUNDS TO BABOONS 
(by John)

As I meandered around the counters in one of Nairobi’s souvenir shops, but with no intention to buy a thing, a smartly dressed lady with a small boy in tow beckoned me over to the ivory counter at which she had been dithering for some minutes.
“I am so sorry to bother you,” she whispered, “but my son and I have just arrived in Kenya.  He will be ten tomorrow and I want to buy him a present, but I am not sure whether the prices in this kind of shop are about right.  I have been told I should bargain for everything, but I have never bargained in my life.  One doesn’t do that sort of thing in Bond Street,” she giggled.
“Right,” I said softly, not wanting to embarrass the shop assistant, “Let’s take a stroll outside and perhaps come back this afternoon.”
I gave her a knowing nod and steered her out together with the boy.  As we walked we introduced ourselves.  Her name was Mrs. Bloom and her son was named Adam.  They had arrived in Nairobi the previous night for a short holiday and were obviously first time visitors, neither of them having even the first pink tinge of a sun tan.  As we approached the New Stanley Hotel, one of the best in town, I suggested cold drinks and in we went.  It was then that I explained about the bargaining, when to and when not to and warned her to think twice before buying anything from a souvenir shop.  Leopard skins, ivory ornaments, shoes and handbags made from crocodile skins and antelope hides and many other animal based souvenirs were on display in shops and hotels and markets and posed a threat to the wildlife of the country.  The more tourists that bought these items, the less wildlife there would be.  If she wanted to buy a birthday present for Adam, I suggested, why not go to a market and buy a few carved wooden animals or perhaps a Masai head-dress or a colourful belt made with hundreds of beads? That would cost less and help the local tribesmen as well as conserving the wildlife.  Then I went a stage further.
“How would you like it if I took you to the Nairobi Game Park tomorrow?” I suggested.
“Yes, please,” cried Adam, his eyes lighting up.
“That would be marvellous!” exclaimed Mrs. Bloom. “I have always wanted to visit an African game park, but surely they are all miles away out in the wilds?”
“Yes, most of them are,” I replied, “but not this one; it is barely five miles from the centre of Nairobi.  I’ll meet you here at nine o’clock.  Alright?”
“Perfect and thank you so much,” she replied.  Adam was too excited to say anything; I left him in a daze.
And so it came about that I met them as planned.  Mother told Adam to sit in the back of the car so that he could look out of both side windows and the rear window.  She sat herself down in the front seat next to me and placed a paper bag on the floor between her feet. “Sandwiches,” she muttered, “in case we have a picnic.”
“Thank you very much,” I said, realising that she apparently expected to be there for several hours. “We shall not be there for very long, two hours at the most as it will be too hot by then.  You know, or maybe you don’t know, that once we enter the park we are not allowed to get out of the car.  Nobody is allowed out of their vehicles for the very good reason that all the animals are wild and that includes lions.  It is not like going to the zoo where the animals are in cages and people walk about; in a game park the people are in cages, their cars and the animals walk about.”
Adam bombarded me with questions as we drove along the main road to the park. “What happens if we meet a lion? Have you ever been charged by an elephant? How close can you get to a rhinoceros?” I hardly had time to answer one question before he fired another one at me, but it was not long before we arrived at the entrance where I paid the small charge and immediately both he and his mother fell silent as they beheld the scene.  Rolling hills and plains spread before us and groups of wildebeeste, zebra and Thompson’s gazelle dotted the landscape.
“Gosh!” called out Adam. “There are thousands of them!” Hundreds would have been more accurate but small boys invariably exaggerate.
Mrs. Bloom was a little more down to earth.  “What a beautiful picture and so peaceful,” she almost whispered. “It’s enchanting!”
I tried to think back a year to my own first visit to the park and to the excitement that welled up within me when I first beheld this same view.  I remembered watching a giraffe crossing the dust track as I rounded a bend and as I rounded that same bend this time, there was a giraffe crossing the track!
“Look!” cried out Mrs. Bloom.
“A giraffe!” yelled Adam.
Then in quick succession a small herd of zebra crossed over followed by several hartebeeste and a small family of warthog with their tails held high like flagpoles, much to the amusement of Adam and his mother.  What astounded them was seeing so many totally different species of animals within a matter of seconds.  They expected to see many species, but not associating with one another.  Mother confessed later that she thought the various species kept their distance, yet one of the delights of any game park is watching so many different animals living in harmony.
I drove slowly to give my guests time to absorb their new experience.  Each time they spotted something new, I joined in their squeals of excitement, not wishing to appear too blasé or superior.  A flock of guinea-fowl or a secretary bird or marabou stork was just as thrilling to them as a waterbuck or a herd of impala or vervet monkeys in a woodland area.  I headed along a track towards Songoro Ridge where a troop of baboons happened to be searching in the grass for grubs and other titbits.  They were scattered on either side of the dust road so I slowed down to walking pace, guessing one or two of them might leap on to the bonnet of my car, then on to the roof.  I kept quiet about that, however, knowing that Adam would enjoy it all the more if it appeared to be unexpected, though I was not sure about his mother.  She had put her son in the back of the car so he could look out of both side windows, but I suspected she thought he would be safer there if we were to be charged by a lion or an elephant.  I had already assured her there were no elephants in the park and that lions are not in the habit of charging cars.  I had also made it clear that we would not be driving through Richmond Park where we could stop and feed the deer.  We were in the Nairobi Park where every animal was wild and many were dangerous.
As I slowly approached the baboons I glanced at Mother sitting beside me.  She had extracted a fan from her handbag and was cooling herself.  I had previously opened all four windows about an inch to create a slight breeze but evidently not enough to keep her cool.  I hoped the fan would.  Suddenly she pointed.
“Oh, look, Adam,” she called as she spotted a baby baboon riding on the back of its mother. “Isn’t that sweet, riding piggy-back so well and so easily.” It never occurred to her that pigs and baboons are not related. “It looks well fed too,” she went on as she turned to me.
“I’m sure it is,” I said, not even looking as I was too busy negotiating my way through the troop.  In the past visitors to the park had frequently thrown scraps and left-overs from their car windows with the result that baboons had come to associate cars with food and sometimes sneaked a free ride with a free meal.  To counter this, game wardens now asked visitors not to feed the animals.  But they never asked Mrs. Bloom not to feed Adam and it was most unfortunate that she chose this moment to offer her son a tomato sandwich.
“Here you are, dear,” she called, waving the sandwich above her head for Adam to grasp and for every baboon nearby to behold with beady eyes.
Instantly several baboons leapt on to the bonnet, some went on to the roof and used it like a trampoline.
“Better close the windows,” I warned, bringing the car to a halt lest I hurt any of them as they scrambled aboard.
Mrs. Bloom did so at once albeit rather nervously, but Adam was taking a bite out of his sandwich and failed to notice that as he turned the handle of his window, he was turning it the wrong way and the window was opening wider.  In a flash a young baboon squeezed through the gap, snatched the sandwich from the astonished boy and leapt on to his mother’s shoulder as she was about to produce another sandwich.
Three high pitched screams rent the air, one from the baboon, a higher one from Adam and the highest of all from Mother.
“Adam!” she cried out in panic, “open the door and let it out!”
“No, don’t!” I yelled, but amidst the noise and hubbub, mostly from Mother, the boy may not have heard me and did as his Mother had told him.  He opened the door and in rushed a whole mob of excited baboons in a mad scramble to look for more sandwiches.
This was too much for Mrs. Bloom.  She threw open her door, grabbed the bag of sandwiches and hurled the lot as far away as she possibly could.  This created pandemonium amongst the animals; those in the car leapt out, others flung themselves in and caused havoc in their frenzied search for food.
I promptly took command. “Everybody out!” I ordered in a sergeant-major like manner.  I well knew it was breaking the rules, but considered it was safer for all three of us to remain outside until the commotion was over.  A car load of angry baboons was not the best company for a well dressed lady and a ten year old boy.  There were some very angry baboons in my car rummaging around, bounding over the seats, jumping on to the dashboard and wrestling with the steering wheel.  I was thankful none had ever taken driving lessons.
Even so, the humorous side of our predicament did not escape me.  Here we were, Mrs. Bloom, Adam and I, standing about like two sore fingers and a thumb and my old Ford Prefect full of chattering and snarling baboons and more baboons arriving by the minute and attracted by the noise.  I wondered what else might be attracted by the noise.  Lions have a reputation for being very curious and will investigate anything unusual and what could be more unusual than a troop of baboons taking over a car? On the other hand, I reflected, they would be the first to raise the alarm if a lion, or more likely a pride of lions, were to approach.
My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of an approaching vehicle.  It was a land rover.  Help was at hand for it could only be a game warden and indeed as it pulled up alongside, the invading baboons made a rapid exit through the doors and scattered in all directions, evidently recognising authority.  The game warden produced a crowbar and wielded it aloft as the horde retreated to a safe distance, casting backward glances and baring their teeth.
“Well, well, well,” said the warden, chuckling. “I’ve seen a few incidents in my life as a warden,” ... more chuckles ... “but never anything quite like this,” and with that he bent almost double with laughter.  Mrs. Bloom and Adam also burst out laughing, she with relief as much as anything, Adam because he had been enjoying the whole incident despite being the original cause of it; it was he who happened to, open the window, albeit accidentally.
When the merriment died down and the warden regained his composure, he asked if anyone was hurt and were we alright.
“Perfectly,” I assured him as calmly as I could.
“I’m a bit shattered,” said Mrs. Bloom, “but I’ll recover.  What about you, dear?” turning to Adam.
“Oh, I’m fine, but I could have done with another sandwich.”
“Never mind, dear,” soothed Mother. “I’m afraid it was all my fault for telling you to open the door.  You see,” now addressing the warden, “first my son was asked to close the window but by mistake he opened it a bit wider and a young baboon managed to climb in.  So without thinking I told him to open the door to let it out.  Silly of me, really! Anyway, there was a sudden stampede of these nasty creatures and we got out as quickly as we could.  I must confess, it was quite an experience, especially as this is our first visit to a game park.  I’m not sure that I’ll want to go again.”
“Oh, I’m sure you will,” commented the warden, smiling. “I don’t blame you for abandoning the car.  By the way,” he continued, turning to me, “you had better check to see if your car is in working condition, otherwise I’ll arrange for a tow.”
Fortunately there was little mechanical damage but plenty of tattered remnants on the floor in the shape of leather seating and torn out stuffing.  The warden very kindly helped to sweep up the mess.
“Right, then,” he said at length, satisfied that all was well. “I’ll be on my way.  Good luck and from now on make sure your car is out of bounds to baboons!”
“Yes, I’ll make sure alright; I’ll put a notice in the windscreen,” I shouted as he drew away.  I could hear him laughing again and felt enormously thankful that he had appeared on the scene at exactly the right moment.
“Well,” I said once we were all back in the car, doors and windows closed, “you know, you should listen to the old pioneers and the big game hunters years ago talking about their adventures with wild animals.  There were no game parks in those days and they had so many stories to tell it was difficult to know whether to believe them.  Now you have a story to tell.  You have had a real adventure, bearing in mind baboons can be extremely vicious.  It is not everyone who has shared a car with a troop of wild baboons.”
“It has its funny side, I suppose,” admitted Mrs. Bloom, wryly.
Adam was more blunt. “I can’t wait till I get back to school and tell my friends,” he said, cheerfully.
I had to admit it was a sort of ‘Boy’s Own’ adventure and something he would remember all his life even if he never set foot in a game park again.  Somehow, I think he will.

CHAPTER 21
SOMEBODY DROPPED A BRICK
(by George)

For some weeks past I had been reading about a series of strange events taking place in a house near Malacca.  It was the usual type of Malay dwelling made of wood and built on stilts, much the same as any dwelling in any kampong.  A perfectly ordinary family lived there, Mr. and Mrs. Osman and their son, Abu, twelve years old.  What went on in the house, however, was far from perfectly ordinary.  Things moved which had no business to move; stones and other objects appeared in the house from nowhere; chairs fell over in the middle of the night.  Mr. and Mrs. Osman were naturally very alarmed though Abu was thrilled to bits.  In due course newspaper reporters hovered around outside at night to record any events that occurred.  I came to learn about it through reading their reports.
I was a Housemaster at the Henry Gurney School a few miles from Malacca.  It was a Sunday evening and I was off duty.  I called out to my Chinese driver, Chiew Boon Beng, who was in fact employed as my cook even though I had to show him how to cook when he first came.  He was, however, a first class motor mechanic and during the ten years he stayed with me he performed the role of driver very successfully and the role of cook unsuccessfully.
“Beng, I am going to the house with the hantu in it; do you want to come?”
Hantu is a Malay word meaning ghostly or supernatural.  The house in question was by now quite well known.
“I no like hantu velly much,” Beng replied in a shaky voice, “but I drive you there and wait in car, then drive you back.  I no want to see hantu.  I velly much aflaid.”
I was not altogether sure whether I wanted to see hantu either.  Outside it was wet, dark and murky, yet I was in the mood for a spot of excitement and curiosity overcame my hesitation.  Beng brought the car round and I climbed in, checking to see if my torch was in its customary place under the dashboard.  A quarter of an hour later we arrived at the kampong or village and soon found the house for a small crowd of onlookers had gathered outside, despite the rain.  Most were Malays but a sprinkling of Chinese mingled with them.  We stopped nearby, parked the car and joined them.  Beng asked one of the Chinese if anything had happened that evening and was told that nothing happens before ten.  I looked at my watch; it was nearly five minutes to ten.
I had left my umbrella behind so rather than wait and get wet I decided to approach the house, knock on the door and ask Mr. or Mrs. Osman if I could invite myself in and stay for a while to keep them company.  Beng went back to the car to wait for me.
I walked up the steps to the front door, the only door and knocked gently, not wanting to alarm anyone.  There was a short pause, then the door was opened by Mr. Osman.  He seemed surprised to see a European standing there.
“Good evening,” I began in my best Malay, smiling to reassure him. “I was wondering if you have had any news about the hantu.”
“Come in, please,” he said with a sigh of relief, tying his sarong firmly around his waist.  Malays often wear a sarong instead of trousers; many Europeans also wear them when they are off duty.  I often wore mine as it was much cooler than any other garment.  It was silk, bright purple in colour and I wore it only at home as I had never acquired the knack of tying it correctly around my waist.  Being silk and somewhat slippery, it often fell down.
I entered Mr. Osman’s home.  The room in which I found myself was square and evidently used as a sitting room although a narrow bed with cushions did service as a settee as well.  A table stood in the centre with four plain wooden chairs around it.  A small glass-fronted bookcase stood against one wall, but it contained only a few cups and saucers on the top shelf.  A spirit lamp hung from a nail on the wall, throwing a gloomy flickering light over the scene.  One open door led into the kitchen, another one into what was probably the second bedroom.
“Please sit down,” Mr. Osman beckoned. “I am sorry there are no soft chairs now as my wife has taken them.  She is not living here at present.”
I sat down at the table while Mr. Osman went into the kitchen to prepare coffee.  Malays are extremely polite and hospitable; it would be unthinkable to allow a guest in without offering a drink, even an uninvited guest like me.  Minutes later he returned bearing two cups of coffee and as he drank his I noticed his hand was distinctly shaky.  By now it was after ten o’clock.  We conversed politely in rather hushed tones and I learnt that Mrs. Osman had gone to another village to stay with relatives; she was too scared to remain at home.  She had taken the two armchairs and a bed.  Abu, their son, had gone to the cinema and was not expected back until eleven o’clock or later.  I also learnt that the hantu had not visited the house for the past three nights.  It rarely missed more than three nights in succession, so Mr. Osman was expecting it tonight.
Feeling a trifle nervous myself, I arose and walked to the front door and opened it.  Through the drizzle I could see a blur of people waiting and my car nearby.  I guessed Beng would be inside stretched out on the back seat.  As I stood there a man emerged from the darkness and walked up the front steps.  I could see he was European.
“Good evening,” he said in a cultured manner, pausing uncertainly at the door and obviously surprised to see me standing there. “My name is Frost, Dr.  Frost and I have come along to see if there is any sign of the hantu.  I’ve read all about it in the papers.  Are you here for the same reason?”
“Yes,” I replied, “I thought I would pop in to see what’s going on.  My name is George Newmark and I work in the school a few miles down the road.  There is only Mr. Osman here at the moment.  He owns the house, you know.”
Dr.  Frost entered, introduced himself to Mr. Osman and sat down at the table.  Mr. Osman immediately disappeared once again into the kitchen and Dr.  Frost and I discussed ghostly matters in subdued whispers.  To be truthful, I was delighted to have the company of another European, especially a doctor.  I felt sure he would know what to do if anything supernatural occurred.
Something supernatural did occur.  There was a sudden clump from that third room, a clump as though something had landed on the floor.  Mr. Osman ran back in from the kitchen, visibly agitated.  The doctor and I sat there for a moment, eyes riveted on the door leading into the adjacent room.
“That’s the bedroom,” quivered Mr. Osman as he tip-toed over to the door. “Nobody has slept in there for weeks.”
We followed him to the door and stood there for a moment, listening.  All was quiet, so Mr. Osman gently opened the door and entered.  Dr.  Frost and I followed close behind.  The lamp in the sitting room we had just left gave enough light for the three of us to see what looked like a brick lying on the floor in the middle of the room.  We gazed at it as though we had never seen a brick in our lives.  We looked up at the roof, wondering whether a practical joker might have thrown it in from outside, but the thatch was solid and complete.  Dr.  Frost moved forward and picked up the brick.
“That’s strange,” he remarked in a puzzled tone. “It couldn’t have come in from outside because it is bone dry.  It’s been raining and everything is sopping wet.  Feel it for yourself, Mr. Newmark.”
He handed me the brick. “Perfectly dry,” I confirmed as I held it gingerly in both hands.  It seemed to me to be an ordinary brick just like a million others.  I examined it on all sides, trying to account for the presence of a brick, of all things, in a wooden house with a thatched roof.
As we stood there puzzling over its sudden arrival, there came another crash from the sitting room in which we had been chatting minutes earlier.  We rushed back in.  Lying on the floor near the table was another brick, this time a broken one.  Again we made a quick examination of the room; the window was unbroken, the roof was in one piece, the front door was closed.  We found nothing to indicate how that second brick had appeared, yet there it was in two pieces.
“There must be an explanation,” I murmured although not totally convinced.
Dr.  Frost agreed. “I feel sure somebody is playing tricks,” he stated. “It is quite impossible for these things to happen on their own.” He turned to Mr. Osman. “Are you absolutely certain there is nobody else in the house?”
“I am quite certain,” he replied. “Apart from the three of us, there is nobody in the house, nobody.  You are welcome to look around and see for yourself.  The only way into the house is through the front door.”
We opened the kitchen door and walked in.  Nothing aroused our suspicions and there was no hiding place large enough to conceal anybody.  We came out and walked into the other bedroom to investigate, Mr. Osman following behind.  As we searched as best we could in the dim light, there was yet another clatter in the sitting roomy more metallic this time and the room was plunged into darkness.  I remembered my torch, but it was still in the car.  However, Dr.  Frost had a box of matches.  He struck one and in the flickering light we groped our way back into the sitting room.  Dr.  Frost moved over to the wall where the spirit lamp had been hanging.  The hook was there, but no lamp.
“Has anyone moved the lamp?” he enquired.
Just as he asked, I saw it lying on the floor a few feet away.  Dr.  Frost lit another match.  We all saw the lamp and looked at it in amazement.  It was unbroken and still upright.  How could a lamp possibly disengage itself from a hook and land upright several feet away from the wall? Spirit lamp seemed an appropriate name.  I picked it up, handling it as though it were Aladdin’s lamp and returned it to its hook.  Dr.  Frost re-lit it, cautiously.
“How very strange,” he muttered in a tone of voice he might have used when examining a patient with an unknown complaint. “I have to confess I am somewhat baffled.  Surely someone is playing tricks; there is no other explanation.”
Although I did not entirely agree with him, nevertheless it was possible if only because he and I were not easily convinced that supernatural forces were at work.  A joker seemed the only answer.
The three of us sat at the table and discussed the situation in a reasonably calm and scientific manner.  The doors into the kitchen and the bedroom were both wide open so we had a partial view into all three rooms.  Mr. Osman was seated in front of the bookcase and began chanting in Malay as if to appease the hantu.  But the hantu was not impressed.  Even as Mr. Osman intoned, swaying from side to side and waving his arms in a strange manner, there came the sound of shattering china as one of the cups on the top shelf fell over and the saucer slipped down to the, floor of the cabinet.  Mr. Osman rose quickly and we all stared at the broken saucer and the cup lying on its side.
It was too much for Mr. Osman. “Please go away and leave me in peace,” he pleaded. “Go away, please, go away!”
At first we assumed he was pleading to the hantu, begging it to go away, but then we realised he was asking Dr.  Frost and me to go away.
“I am very sorry, gentlemen,” he continued, looking at us, “but the hantu is very upset this evening.  It has never stayed so long and it has never visited that cabinet.  I think it must be offended and unhappy because it is not used to Europeans being present when he is visiting this house.  I am very sorry.”
Dr.  Frost came to the rescue. “Never mind, Mr. Osman, we were about to go anyway as it is getting late.  Thank you very much indeed and I hope the hantu will leave you in peace now.”
We rose and shook hands with our host.  He was acutely embarrassed at having suggested we had made the hantu angry and was obviously relieved as we turned to go.  We also were relieved when we stepped out into the night air.  It had stopped raining and the croaking of frogs accompanied us on the short walk to my car.  Beng was fast asleep on the back seat.
“Come on, Beng,” I called, shaking him out of his dream world. “The doctor and I are going into Malacca for a meal and a drink.  He will follow us in his own car.”
Despite the late hour and fortified by a hearty Chinese meal and drinks, stiff ones for the doctor, we sat at the table and discussed the events of the evening.  Some Chinese were playing mah jong at the next table, others were chatting and eating.  They don’t seem to go to bed.  Dr.  Frost with his scientific mind refused to believe there was anything supernatural about the whole affair and declared that somebody was responsible.
“They do have a twelve year old son, Abu,” I told him, “but Mr. Osman assured me he had gone to the cinema.
“There you are,” intervened the doctor, “I bet Abu was at the bottom of it.”
“Well, we never saw him,” I said, “but I suppose he could have been hanging around.  Yet he was certainly not in the room when the cup and saucer fell over.  And why on earth would he be carrying bricks and dry ones at that?”
We argued and discussed it at length.  I personally liked to think a hantu was present.  I have always felt that natives of tropical lands understand hantus and poltergeists and other supernatural matters better than we do.  Witch doctors and medicine men deserve some respect.
“Anyway, let’s go home and sleep on it,” I suggested, yawning.
We rose from the table, but in doing so Dr.  Frost inadvertently pushed his chair back into the path of a waiter hurrying across the floor with a tray of dishes in his hands.  He was moving too fast to avoid the chair and ran into it and although he managed to save himself falling over, most of the dishes fell to the stone floor with quite the loudest crash of the evening, but it was one that could be accounted for.  Any hantus in the vicinity would have fled in horror.

CHAPTER 22
TO TELL THE TRUTH

In April 1965 we were on another collecting trip to Florida when we learnt we had been invited to appear on a CBS Television Network programme called ‘To Tell the Truth.’ It was a most successful and popular programme which had been running for several years, watched by an audience of twenty million people at peak time viewing three times a week.  A telephone call from one of America’s top publishing firms, Random House, first drew our attention to the programme by asking whether one of us would be willing to appear in the leading role.
“But of course, we would both be delighted,” was our instant reply.
Random House had just published the American edition of our book, ‘To the Zoo in a Plastic Box,’ which had been published in England by Routledge & Kegan Paul, so it was possible the book would be given a spot of publicity during the programme, thereby giving a valuable boost to the sales in the States.  We flew to New York the following day.
The programme takes the form of a panel game in which four resident experts, the panel, pit their wits against three contestants each of whom claims to be the same person, Jo Pickle, for example. “My name is Jo Pickle,” calls out contestant No.  1 as convincingly as possible.  No.  2 standing in line repeats, “My name is Jo Pickle,” followed immediately by No.  3 declaring, “My name is Jo Pickle,” thus confusing the panel whose job it is to sort out the genuine Jo Pickle from the bogus Pickles.  This they hope to do by asking each contestant a number of questions in a limited period of time.  The real Jo Pickle is honour bound to answer each question truthfully; the other two must try to convince the panel they are telling the truth, even if they are not.
To help them perform more convincingly, the two bogus contestants are introduced to the genuine one on the day before the programme goes out live and over endless cups of coffee and giant hamburgers they learn as much as possible about him.  If for example he breeds exotic butterflies for a living, they would need to learn the names of some of the species he breeds, their life cycle, the best temperature to encourage breeding, the correct food plants for their caterpillars, how to tell males from females and many other details.  By way of further encouragement each contestant is promised a financial reward for every wrong identification made by the four panel members at the end of the game.
On the other hand those four experts would have had experience on their side.  They would have asked hundreds of questions to hundreds of contestants over the years and would be able to sort out truthful answers from fabricated ones.  A moment of hesitation by a contestant answering a question, or a slight waver in his voice, or a nervous cough before replying would warn the experts that he is fibbing.  It is therefore imperative that each bogus Jo Pickle discovers as much as possible about the genuine one so as to convince the panel that he is the real one by answering the questions truthfully, even if he knows he isn’t.
We ourselves knew little about the game, but after depositing our baggage in New York’s newest hotel, our instructions were to report to an office on the 30th. floor of a skyscraper for a briefing session.  At the appointed time we were whisked aloft into the clouds and introduced to the producer and various others connected with the programme.  The producer was a large and very jolly character, warm, genial and full of joie de vivre, even though his handgrip left one’s fingers welded together.  After some light-hearted banter about our remarkable similarity, two strangers came on the scene and were introduced all round.  One, a middle aged gentleman named Robinson, was every inch an Englishman complete with rolled-up umbrella; the other was a fifteen year old schoolboy named Graham who spoke impeccable English and might have lived in a stately home.  Both had been chosen deliberately to appear on the programme because they were so typically English born and bred.  They were to be the two bogus contestants.  To our surprise, we noticed each of them carried a copy of our book and therefore already knew quite a lot about us and about our collecting trips.  Meeting us in person and talking to us was the object of the exercise and they soon learnt about our hobbies, our jobs, our likes and dislikes and many other aspects of our lives.  By the end of the day they both felt they had known us for years.  They knew which countries we had visited, the kinds of creatures we had collected, why we presented them to London Zoo, had we ever been bitten or stung, were we ever in danger, how did we get through customs and plenty more.  They believed they would answer any questions with confidence and conviction, regardless whether their answers were right or wrong.  They were at liberty to fib openly; the secret was to do so successfully.  We reminded them, too, of a possible financial reward at the end of the programme.
It became apparent that only one of us could appear in the star role, for only three contestants take part and Mr. Robinson and Graham were two of them.  Either John or George would complete the trio, so it was a case for tossing a coin.  We agreed heads for John, tails for George.  Up went a nickel and down it came, heads.  So John it would be, but the producer promised that George would appear towards the end of the programme to identify his twin brother.
At length the briefing came to an end.  We returned happily to our hotel, having learnt there would be a short final briefing the next day.  It was after dinner that we were sitting in our room discussing the events of the day.
“I have an idea,” George suddenly pronounced.
“So have I,” exclaimed John without evincing surprise from either of us.
“My idea,” George went on, “is this; shall we change roles for the actual programme? Nobody would ever know.  Mr. Robinson, Graham and I would stand in line on the stage and each of us would claim to be you.  We would each say, “My name is John Newmark.”
“That is exactly what I was going to suggest,” remarked John.
It was certainly a pleasant prospect and we both fell silent, relishing the opportunity that lay open to us.  In the past we had frequently pretended to be each other and had often got away with it, but to take in twenty million people all at once was mind boggling.  Indeed, our minds were so boggled we decided not to decide for the moment.  A rehearsal was due to take place the next day and the actual programme would follow an hour later.  We could wait until after the rehearsal before finally making a decision.
That next day we rose early, had a quick breakfast and then went sightseeing in New York City without being over-impressed.  We preferred a real jungle to a concrete one.  Back in our hotel at midday, we ordered a light lunch, but their idea of a light lunch was equivalent to a three-course meal.  We managed the first course quite well and struggled to get through the second; we had to decline the third for fear of exploding.  Americans sure have appetites!
Mr. Robinson and Graham were at the CBS studios when we arrived and a short briefing convinced us that they had done their homework and deserved full marks.  It was almost as if they had lived with us and had accompanied us on all our collecting trips.  They knew us almost as well as we knew each other.
Other people arrived; camera crews, lighting engineers, sound engineers, a lady who handed scripts to everybody, an assistant producer, the producer’s secretary and finally the producer himself.  He wasted no time.
“Okay, okay everyone, let’s go,” he called out and immediately led the way at a brisk pace on to the stage of the television studio.
A short walk brought us to the stage. “That’s great,” he announced when we were gathered together.  We had no time to wonder what was so great. “Right, then, Mr. Rarbinson, you will be number one.  Come and stand right here, Mr. Rarbinson, right here on this chalk mark.  You see this chalk mark? That’s fine, that’s real dandy, Mr. Rarbinson, real dandy.” Mr. Robinson looked slightly baffled at having so much praise heaped upon him just for standing on a chalk mark, but the producer didn’t notice; he was already busy with Graham.
“Right, Graham, you will be number, two and you will stand right there, right there on the left of Mr. Rarbinson.” Graham moved to his appointed position. “That’s great, that’s really great,” the producer exclaimed, giving Graham the impression that he had performed a miracle.
He then turned to us. “Mr. Noomark and Mr. Noomark,” he said loudly and burst out laughing. “This sure is something.  You two guys could fool me.”
Little did he know that we might well do so. “Say, I bet you’ve fooled a few people in your time.  So which of you two is going to be the star of the show?”
“I shall do my very best to shine like a star,” replied John.
“I sure guess you will,” chuckled the great man, “and I can see you shining already, Mr. Noomark.  Now, Mr. Noomark, you will be number three, so just stand right there next to Graham.  That’s poifect and your brother can stand in the wings,” he explained, addressing himself to George. “You stand in the wings, Mr. Noomark and we will call you on presently.  Okay, Mr. Noomark?”
“Absolutely,” replied George as he moved away to the wings.
The producer now faced the three contestants standing in line.
“Now the foist thing that will happen, gennelmen, is the coit’n will go up.
You just stand there quite still as the coit’n goes up and a spotlight will shine on number one, that’s you, Mr. Rarbinson; okay, Mr. Rarbinson?”
“I understand perfectly,” Mr. Robinson assured him in impeccable English.
 “That’s fine,” the producer went on, “and with the spotlight on you, Mr. Rarbinson, you call out in a clear voice, ‘My name is John Noomark.’ That’s all you have to say, Mr. Rarbinson; ‘My name is John Noomark,’ and as you finish saying it the spotlight will move on to number two, that’s you, Graham.  Okay Graham? The spotlight is now shining on you and you then repeat the words, ‘My name is John Noomark.’ Is that okay with you, Graham?”
“I’ll have a jolly good try,” the boy asserted in his best Oxford accent.
The producer chuckled. “That’s great, that’s wunnerful.  You English guys speak such poifect English.” He turned to me. “Ah, Mr. Noomark, you are number three and the spotlight will shine right there, right on you and I guess you already know what to say, Mr. Noomark, right?”
“I have a fairly good idea,” I replied, nodding. “I believe I have to say, ‘My name is John Newmark,’ or am I mistaken?”
“I guess you’ve got it all tied up, Mr. Noomark.  Okay, okay, that’s poifect.”
He appeared totally satisfied with our performance so far, even though we had hardly performed at all.  Further instructions followed.  We were told that at this point a short statement would be read out for the benefit of the panel and the viewers, a statement about our passion for collecting creatures for London Zoo.  At the end of that statement we three contestants were to move to a nearby table and sit there facing the four members of the panel seated at another table.  They would then proceed to ask each of us in turn a number of questions, to which we would reply.  Further instructions followed and finally the producer seemed happy enough to start the rehearsal proper.
“Right, gennelmen, I guess we are all set now to start rolling.  Ready on stage? Ready up there with the lights? Ready everyone? Right, quiet, please, quiet; five ... four ... three ... two ... one ... coit’n!”
Up went the curtain, slowly and for the first time we found ourselves looking out at the auditorium with seating for several hundred people.  At the moment there was just a scattering of technicians sitting there, no doubt to test the sound and the monitor screens.  We barely had time to notice them before the spotlight shone straight on to Mr. Robinson.
“My name is John Newmark,” he declared firmly.  The light moved to Graham.
“My name is John Newmark,” Graham pronounced in a steady voice.  Then that beam of light shone directly on to me.
“My name is John Newmark.” My voice too was steady; after all, I was telling the truth.
The opening lines over, I now led the way to our table on the left and we sat down as instructed.  Facing us and seated at a larger table were two ladies and two gentlemen.  They were not the panel; they merely represented the four expert members of the panel who would be seated there for the real performance.  Now a short statement was read out giving some background information about our collecting trips and following this the stand-in panel started their questioning.  Each of them was given about one minute to question each of us and so for the next quarter of an hour they sought to establish the real John Newmark by plying us with a variety of questions, each of which received an answer.  Whether that answer was correct or otherwise was for them to decide.  I was honour bound to give truthful answers and, as it happened, both Mr, Robinson and Graham were able to give correct answers to nearly all their questions.  Well done, I thought.
The interrogation was now over and the stand-in panel were asked which in his or her opinion was the real John Newmark.  One thought Mr. Robinson, two decided on Graham and one felt convinced I was the culprit.
“Hold it there, hold everything!” suddenly called out the producer. “That was poifect, just poifect and if it goes as good as this tonight, it’ll be a wow.” We assumed a wow meant success. “But right now there will be a change from normal.  Instead of the real Mr. Noomark standing up to identify himself, I want Mr. Noomark’s twin brother to be called up on stage.  Are you there, Mr. George Noomark? Mr. George Noomark, come right over here and stand right here in front of your brother.” George complied and there was an audible gasp of astonishment from the panel. “That’s fine, that’s exactly right, Mr. Noomark and now I want you to point a finger at your brother.” George pointed at me. “That’s real dandy, Mr. Noomark and it brings you into the programme.  We’ve never had twins on this programme, so you come and identify your twin brother.  That way the audience will see you together and they’ll love it, they’ll just love it.” He bubbled with enthusiasm. “Okay then, Mr. Noomark?”
“Okay,” replied George, “and I only hope I shall also be a wow.”
The producer exploded with laughter, generating his enthusiasm all round.
“I guess you will be a wow, “ he agreed.  He was clearly pleased with his innovation, as were the stand-in panel.
“Okay, okay,” he called again, addressing himself to no one in particular.  He consulted his watch. “The programme will be on the air in just one hour twenny minutes.  If you gennelmen make your way to the dressing room I’ll have some food sent up.  Have you tried our hamboigers? Best hamboigers in the woild.”
A stage hand directed us to the dressing room.  We had barely sat down when a messenger appeared bearing a tape measure, notebook and pencil.
“I need some measurements from you two brothers,” he explained as he began measuring our arms and legs, chest and waist. “We want you to look identical when you go on stage.”
We were about to point out that we had looked identical for the past fifty years, but there was a knock on the door and in walked another messenger bearing a plate of hamburgers.  We looked at them aghast; they were gigantic, each about three storeys high.  Having had more than we could comfortably manage for lunch, we were far from hungry.  However, we knew that the moment the programme was over we were to be rushed off to the airport to catch our return flight home and our next meal would not be until we were well out over the Atlantic.  So we decided to nibble at a hamburger from time to time, fearful lest our waist lines extended still further.
Ten minutes later that first messenger returned carrying two brown suits, two white shirts and two yellow ties.
“I guess these will do for size,” he said, “but try them on.” I’ll be back.”
Our new shirts fitted perfectly and the jackets were comfortable enough, but the trousers were a trifle tight around the waist, especially George’s.
The messenger returned. “Can you bring a larger size?” enquired George. “You’ll have to blame the hamburgers.”
The man scratched his head. “If you want larger pants, you’ll have to have larger jackets, I guess.  They’re on hire, you see, the pants and jackets go together.”
“If they can’t split them, don’t blame us if we split the trousers,” quipped George.
“Okay, they’re yours for the programme,” said the messenger with a sigh as he left the room.  George’s circumference round his middle had always been a shade larger than John’s, but we both decided to risk no further nibbles.
A lot of thought had gone into the most effective way of bringing George into the programme, which, over the years, invariably ended with the star of the show standing up to identify himself or herself as the genuine contestant.  This time, however, neither the audience nor the panel would learn of any change from normal until it happened.  A twist in the tail was what the producer wanted.
Time slipped by fast.  We had still not settled which of us would take the star role.  George, having watched the rehearsal, was quite capable of taking over from John, yet we were both slightly troubled; were we being quite fair to the producer? True, he would never know, but was it morally right?
There was a knock on the door and a lady entered. “Good afternoon everyone,” she said breezily, “I’m the make-up lady.  Who’ll be foist?” Her eyes fell on us. “Oh my!” she gasped, “I guess you two must be twins.  Say, am I right or am I right?”
“Madam,” replied John with a twinkle in his eye, “we have been twins from the day we were born.”
Madam giggled. “My goodness, now ain’t that cute! Tao you know something? Let me tell you, this will be the foist time I’ve made up twins.  Would one of you mind sitting right here by the light?”
George sat down gingerly and she applied a touch of powder to his face.  John followed him, then Graham and finally Mr. Robinson, all to a non-stop patter of conversation on the part of the make-up lady.  She told us three times that she would be gunning for us as she watched the programme on a monitor set.  Graham explained ‘gunning’; “Sticking up for us,” he whispered.
The make-up over, she departed, wishing us good luck.  We returned to our seats round the table.  Graham helped himself to another hamburger, Mr. Robinson continued on the one he had started, whilst we sat and looked at each other’s make-up.  Moments later came another knock on the door.  A messenger poked his head round.
“Will you gentlemen make your way back on stage,” he announced.
The four of us rose quickly, George too quickly. As he rose he heard a faint snap and his trousers suddenly loosened round the waist.
“Oh dear, my zip has broken,” he whispered to John. “That settles it; I can’t take your place, you’ll have to go on.  I’ll wait in the wings and scream for a safety pin.”
We had not quite made up our minds, in fact, but now the problem had been resolved; John would play the main role after all.  We trooped up on to the stage, George holding his trousers up.  He sat in the wings and asked someone to find him a safety pin. “It’s urgent,” he pleaded.  On the stage camera crews were standing by, sound recorders checked the microphones, the script girl fussed over a file and the producer beamed with satisfaction as we took up our appointed places on the chalk marks.  He looked at his watch. “Thirty seconds to go,” he whispered to the three of us. “Okay, Mr. Rarbinson, Graham, okay Mr. Noomark?”
We nodded. “That’s real good, you guys.  I know you’ll make it.  Good luck!”
He moved off stage, counting the final seconds. “Five ... four ... three ... two ... one ... coiten.”
The curtain rose as before, slowly.  A forest of faces filled the auditorium.  The spotlight shone accurately on to Mr. Robinson.
“My name is John Newmark.”
Now the spotlight moved. “My name is John Newmark,” Graham called right on cue.
The spotlight moved again. “My name is John Newmark,” I proclaimed.
I led the way to our table, glancing into the wings on the way.  There was no sign of George; good, I thought, he’s looking for a pin.
Sitting ourselves at the table, we had a good look at the four regular members of the panel, the experts, two ladies and two gentlemen, sitting facing us at their own table on the far side of the stage.  I pictured them in my mind sizing us up.  As yet they had no clues about us, but then came the promised statement about our hobby, collecting for the Zoo.  A voice from somewhere read; I, John Newmark and my identical twin brother, George, have a most unusual hobby.  We collect such creepy crawlies as snakes, lizards and insects and send them to London Zoo.  We started collecting when we were seven years old.  Since then, my brother and I have supplied the Zoo with three hundred specimens from four continents.  The tools of our trade include nets, cotton bags, plastic boxes, cake tins, vegetable strainers, umbrellas and glass tubes that tooth brushes come in.  We have increased the population of London Zoo with rhinoceros beetles, lubber locusts, mud skippers, royal pythons, imperial scorpions, pygmy rattlesnakes and black widow spiders.  Signed, John Newmark.
So that was it; some clues for the panel to work on.  John Newmark must be a naturalist; which of us would dare catch rattlesnakes and black widows? Graham looked a bit young but he could be adventurous; Mr. Robinson appeared to be experienced, but so did Mr. Newmark.  Our appearances gave nothing away, so it was up to the panel to devise their own questions and the first shot was fired straight at me.
“Number three, can you tell me what colour a mud skipper is?” asked a lady.
“Yes,” I replied. “A mud skipper is mud coloured.” I saw her give a wry smile and heard a ripple of laughter from the studio audience.  It was a good start.  She was not to know we had caught mud skippers in West Africa.
So the questions continued.  Both Mr. Robinson and Graham gave convincing answers, nearly all of which were true.  They really had done their homework and showed an amazing degree of self-confidence.  I myself had no problems apart from worry about George and his trousers!
In the meantime, with all going well on stage, there was indeed frantic activity off stage as George gathered a growing army of helpers to find a safety pin.  It was the make-up lady who finally came to his rescue with no less than six, though George managed to close his zip skilfully enough with just two pins, neither of them visible.  He hurriedly returned to the wings, arriving in time to hear the last few questions; he noted with pleasure they were answered correctly and silently congratulated the bogus contestants.
Now it was time for each member of the panel to make an assessment of the answers and to proclaim, loudly and clearly, rightly or wrongly, which of the three contestants he or she believed was the real John Newmark and to give their reasons.  The first expert decided against Graham as he was too young and against John who didn’t look scruffy enough to be a naturalist! So he plumped for Mr. Robinson.  A lady expert came next; she agreed that Graham was too boyish to have had any experience; Mr. Newmark was almost too quick answering her questions, therefore Mr. Robinson must be the real John Newmark.  Then came the other gentleman who merely said that it was perfectly obvious number one, Mr. Robinson, was every bit a naturalist and therefore had to be the real John Newmark.  Finally the lady who had asked the question about the colour of a mud skipper based her conclusions on that one answer I had given and without hesitation declared John Newmark to be the real John Newmark.  Later she admitted it was pure guesswork!
So, three votes for Mr. Robinson and one for Mr. Newmark summed up their verdict.  Now the moment had come for the truth to be revealed, the moment the experts and the studio audience and the 20 million viewers had been waiting for; the moment when the real John Newmark would be asked to stand up and identify himself.  But the rules had been changed.  They heard instead a request:
Will George Newmark please come on stage and identify his twin brother.
The members of the panel looked startled; the studio audience were shocked into silence.  This long established programme had never ended like this and everyone was curious to know the answer.
For George, his moment of glory had come.  He knew exactly what he should do; walk on stage, confront his brother, then point to him.  He did no such thing.  He went up to Mr. Robinson, looked him up and down, compared his clothing with his own, then shook his head to signal that Mr. Robinson clearly was not his twin brother.  George then moved over to Graham, compared his height and stature and again shook his head; Graham was not his twin brother.  So he moved over to John, peered at him closely, stood back a few paces to examine him from different angles and finally broke into a broad smile and pronounced in triumph that John Newmark was indeed his twin brother.  His performance resulted in an explosion of cheers and merriment all round.  Of course from the moment he had appeared on stage it was obvious to everyone which contestant was the real John Newmark, yet for George to examine all three contestants before coming to a decision was a stroke of genius.  The panel loved it, the audience loved it and George secretly derived enormous pleasure in the knowledge that 20 million viewers watching him had not the remotest idea that his trousers were being held up by just two safety pins.
The curtain came down to thunderous applause.  The show was over.  We had a limousine waiting to take us to the airport so just had time to thank everyone concerned and to hear the producer describe the whole programme as a brilliant success, a wow without a doubt.  A quick change back into our own clothes, a hurried goodbye to Mr. Robinson and Graham and off we went clutching all our baggage which, incidentally, included holdalls full of creepy crawlies we had collected in Florida.  A huge car whisked us off to the airport and we arrived with minutes to spare before take-off.  We were rushed through customs, passport checks and the rest; security was not very important in those days.  We were the last to board the plane and we sank into our seats in something of a daze.  We were on our way home.
Two weeks later we received a letter from the producer.
‘Dear John and George, I am sorry you will never be able to see your brilliant performance on last night’s To Tell the Truth broadcast.  I think Orson Bean’s comment (a member of the panel) that you should have a television show of your own should give you food for thought.  I think you two could do a marvellous programme with your creepy crawlies either with the BBC or commercial television in Britain.  Warmest personal regards.’
The following day came a letter with our prize money less income tax!
We remain eternally grateful to Routledge & Kegan Paul who published our book, then negotiated with our American publishers, Random house, who arranged for us to appear on the programme.  We are enormously grateful too to Mr. Robinson and to Graham who deceived three of the four members of the panel.  Finally we take off our hats to that splendid producer who took such care over so many details to ensure the programme was successful.  Even the hamboigers played their part in making it a wow.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
We would like to thank our numerous friends and relations who helped us in many different ways including, of course, the actual collecting of the animals and feeding them, putting us up and putting up with us and our livestock.  The collectors waded into swamps, scrambled over desert rocks, stumbled through rain forests or roamed the bush, the plains savannas.  Without their help this book would have remained a dream:-

Martin Ableman
Barbara, Bill and John Ashton
Michael Baltzer
Dominic Beal
Alison and Andrew Berton
Paul Butler
Mark and Richard Carter
Boon Beng Chiew
Lt.  Col.  Norman Clayden
Richard Claypole
June and Victor Crew
Bett, Justin, Michèle and Mike Dalton-Stirling
Terry Davidson
Bruce Davies
Dorothy and Ira Dennison
Michael Ferguson
Colin Fitzsimmons
George Gammon
Rex Giles
Ian Green
Alan Harman
Tim Hartley
Benjamin Hodgson
Paul Hollins
Dr.  K.  James
Alan and Jean Janes
Anthony Julian-Ottie
Gabriel Kellett
Philip Lampkin
Andrew Littlewood
Alan, Hilda and Jonathan May
Corin Millais
Phyllis and John Ogden
Jill Pole
Arthur and Pat Pope
Bruce, Duane and Zan Ricketson
Mary Salton
Ian Schalburg
Simon Somers
Stephen Spicer
Mark, Patricia and Mark II Wainwright
John Yealland
S.  Zilberman
Barry Zwirn

Also
Mr. M.  Boorer, Education Officer and four members of the staff at London Zoo, together with 85 members of the XYZ Club (Exceptional Young Zoologists) who accompanied us to Kenya and Tanzania.

A special thank you to Mark Greenfield and to Ben Holness who put the whole book on to the Internet.