How to Walk a Puma (13 page)

My reverie was soon broken by the revving of a motor, and another canoe soon arrived at what I already thought of territorially as our spot.

‘Oh goody,’ I thought, seeing the distinct military haircut at the bow. At least he wasn’t standing up. At least he wasn’t holding sticks. It surprised me that his group had managed such an early start, as their focus in our brief meetings had seemed to be on partying, not wildlife, but they now moved with some urgency up the bank to catch the last of the sunrise—a futile measure, as close to the equator the sun ejects from the horizon like bread from a toaster.

As their group formed up, maintaining a distinct divide from us in the way humans do when two herds meet, I kept my eyes firmly on the commando, ready to break eye contact (and probably wind) if he looked at me. He stood aggressively, shoulders bunched as if ready to swing into violent action; it was the pose of an alpha gorilla unlikely to let an insult pass. Usually I aim to defuse tension with humour, but in this case there could be a language barrier, so in the
event of conflict my only chance, I decided, was to make a dive for the river and rely on the slim hope that commandos couldn’t swim.

One of his group broke away and headed into some waist-high grass behind us, a wheaty expanse for many hundred metres. As he moved, the commando looked my way with a scowl. I turned and braced myself to take a running dive.

From behind us came the rasp of a zip, clear in the still morning air, and I waited for the gush of urine that the departed Israeli was surely going to unleash (at what I thought was an impolite proximity to the gathering). Instead there was a girlish squeal, the thunder of feet and a guttural Hebrew curse.

Both groups had been facing the now-risen sun, watching its reflection redden the water, but we all swivelled en masse at the disturbance. The erstwhile urinator had woken a sleeping capybara that was now desperate to avoid being peed on, or was perhaps furious at the indignity of it all, and was doing what capybara do when threatened, and heading for the water. Unfortunately our group was in its way.

Capybaras are far from sluggish and this one was coming at us at ramming speed. Weighing up to forty-five kilos, a capybara bowling you over could cause serious injury, and I really wished that I knew how to handle this species like I did those in Africa. Should you stand your ground or run? Or throw a commando at it and let them sort it out? But there was no time to put that plan in place. Several of us sidestepped, some throwing themselves bodily out of harm’s way as the rodent charged through the gap we’d made then scampered down the bank and plunged into the river, its splash exposing a jagged stump that would have impaled me had I made my own planned exit.

Both groups re-formed like schooling fish, but this time with no gap between us, united by the experience. Most people were laughing, a common response to shock, led by Eric who was delighted by the encounter. I was chuckling away too, but warily eyed the commando for a few tense seconds before Eric said it was too crowded and we should move on.

I waited for a voice to call me back or a sucker punch to the back of my head, but we returned to our canoe without incident. This made me wonder if the commando had considered his sins and felt some shame, or whether he was mellower than I had given him credit for, or merely dulled by dope.

While I accepted that diplomacy might be the better approach in future, all I knew was that I had stood up for something that mattered to me. I probably hadn’t taught him anything—in fact, he undoubtedly respected my stand as much as a pigeon respects a statue. Nevertheless, I felt a small sense of pride from the experience, even if it had taken an oversized guinea pig to save me.

The Idiot Box

Over the years I’d been approached several times by producers who’d read my books about safari guiding in Africa and who were interested in making a TV show based on them. While these opportunities had all dried up, I received a new approach while I was travelling in South America which felt different, like we might make something worthwhile, in contrast to the current crop of wildlife shows which all seemed to involve the host diving onto animals then proclaiming, ‘He seems a bit agitated,’ as the creature struggles to get free. Despite myself, I started getting excited that we could make a show that was based on information and conservation.

Back in Australia the occasional day’s test filming had led to adventures like being locked in a cage with white lions—a welcome escape from my office routine and a reminder of what I was passionate about. Though the concept of being on television caused some mixed feelings, since I cherish the relative anonymity of being an author, there were some good reasons to be enthusiastic this time. The production company told me that one of their priorities was highlighting issues of conservation. If it worked out, presenting a TV show would also fulfil my desire to continue travelling the world watching animals, and would pay far better than writing alone.

After our boating adventures, the Minke and I had decided to travel further north, and when the production company wanted to do a test shoot we agreed that the best place to meet was Colombia.

‘Is it really safe here?’ Michael asked. He would be producer, director and cameraman for the shoot, and had just landed at Bogotá airport. He was referring to the country’s violent reputation as a hotbed for criminal activities run by drug lords. Lisa and I had already spent two weeks travelling through some of its towns and
coffee-growing
regions and had found them nothing but charming.

‘Seems it,’ I replied, and that was true as far as our experiences went.

Lisa didn’t care to accompany us for the test shoot, and went head alone to Cartagena, a Spanish colonial city on the Caribbean coast, where I intended to join her three days later. I wasn’t perturbed at the thought of her travelling alone because of how safe the country felt, and because she was more than savvy enough to go alone—in fact had done so for several months before we had met. Also, I would back her in a bar fight any day.

‘It seems very safe,’ I reassured Michael, who still seemed nervous.

He might have had a point. I’d arranged a naturalist guide to accompany us, but we were heading into more remote parts of the country, and there might still be rebel activity in these areas. And as well as the guerrilla groups, over the next two days of travel there was a chance we’d encounter pumas, bears, snakes and maybe, just maybe, a jaguar.

On the first day of travelling together, Michael and I were met in front of our hotel at the foul hour of four am by our guide, Diana, and a man named Eduardo who would act as our driver. From the look of his shaved head and bulging muscles he was likely to be
talented at security too. His car was tiny, its tyres no larger than dinner plates. He squeezed his massive frame behind the wheel with difficulty, and drove with an arm out the window by necessity as much as attitude.

Bogotá is the world’s second-highest capital city (after La Paz in Bolivia), but Eduardo drove us higher still, up and up. We passed panting cyclists struggling in the thin air, and I found the mere idea of exertion in this oxygen-depleted part of the world tiring.

After several hours’ drive, and a break to partake of a local energy brew that consisted of hot water, huge chunks of palm sugar and a slab of rubbery white cheese, we reached Chingaza National Park, accessible only by special permission. The power a TV camera can wield became apparent, as the guards checking our papers were more interested in whether we were famous than if everything was in order.

After completing security we drove through gates into a place of clear streams and tussock grasses, as well as alien-looking plants with hairy leaves on dead-straight stems. Everything glistened with dew and our breath fogged with each exhalation. This habitat, called páramo, consisted of high-altitude wetland that was home to rarely seen species such as the mountain tapir, as well as more cosmopolitan animals like pumas and the continent-spanning white-tailed deer.

‘More energy!’ Michael called as I was doing my first piece to camera.

Whenever animals are the subject of general conversation I become very animated, and could flap my jaw at the person I’m talking to until their ears bleed. But talking to a camera is very different; addressing the lidless eye of the lens and the slow-blinking red light above I found it hard to muster anything more than a dull monotone.

‘Páramo,’ I said blandly, ‘is high. Cold. Wet.’

‘More energy!’ Michael called again.

I remembered all the wildlife television hosts I’d seen over the years, bounding over rocks like mountain goats, jumping on animals, going into raptures at any critter they encountered. To show that I wasn’t beyond such lunacy myself, I came up with the idea of sampling a plant, unwise given that my knowledge of local botany was negligible. Maybe, though, some plant compound could give me the manic energy I needed to cut it on film. I skipped the unappealing hairy plant and spied something that looked a little like rosemary. My taste test revealed it to be something you’d never add to a meal. As I spat out the bitter pith, Michael said, ‘Great! Let’s get some more of that!’

Diana directed Eduardo to drive us to likely habitats for pumas and other species, while Michael encouraged me to shout and gesticulate wildly for the camera, making so much noise that any sensible cat would emigrate in protest.

‘Look at this!’ I yelled, pointing at a pile of bones I’d found after climbing onto a small ledge.

Michael followed, slipping and sliding on the mossy rocks as he continued filming. I have long ago given up the idea of athletic prowess or even sure-footedness, and consider any day that I don’t fall over or walk into anything a victory, but Michael was so out of his element in the wilderness that I felt like a ballerina. Gasping for breath, he joined me.

‘Puma kill!’ I said, genuinely excited now. Attached to the bones were some withered strips of sinew, skin turning to leather and a foot. ‘See this! Not a hoof … looks like it was a fox!’ I enjoy playing wildlife detective so I was grinning in genuine delight as I checked the carcass’s surrounds and located the distinct pugmarks of a puma,
still familiar from my time with Roy. ‘Yes! Definitely a puma kill—not so fresh, maybe even a week or more old, but the overhang has protected the tracks from rain. Nice!’

‘Hey,’ Michael said, ‘that was excellent. But you can hear my breathing on the tape. Can you do it again, with a bit more energy?’

Over dinner that night, back at our hotel, Michael revealed that this was his first wildlife shoot, his usual work being studio based. It turned out he had shot several feature films I’d seen and enjoyed. Movies are a side passion of mine and we stayed up talking later than we should have given that another brutally early start was scheduled for the next day.

When I expressed concern at being tired for the next day’s filming, Michael assured me that if I could be as animated as I’d just been during our conversation we’d be able to nail it.

But there was no nailing. With no emotional feedback from the lens I came across as cold and emotionless as a toilet bowl, but nowhere near as deep. On day two we travelled to the lowlands, a place of tangled trees and busy streams, chattering with birds and monkeys. There might be jaguars here, but Michael, keen to get a worthy performance from me, kept calling for more energy, and by energy he meant shouty enthusiasm. If all the noise I made didn’t drive away the wildlife then the strange rictus I wore to show enthusiasm just might. Watching the playback I saw someone who looked like me but with a leery grin that would make sensible people lock up their daughters—and maybe bring Grandma in off the porch too.

Only when Michael took long shots of me seeing patches of the jungle for the first time did he capture my genuine love for all wild
places, but the interspersed pieces to camera spoiled any useful footage he had.

The last segment was to be shot in a cave, which excited me because according to Diana it held five species of bats, including one with long fangs that drink blood. Vampires. I’d never seen them, and was keen for a close look.

‘Don’t forget, you need to project lots of energy!’ said Michael as we headed into the cave. Already that day I had climbed trees and a rock face to demonstrate that I was not a zombie, and while I did appreciate the opportunity being offered to me, suddenly the whole idea of appearing on screen was wearisome.

Yet real energy came to me when I met my first vampire bat. I’d read up on them in anticipation of this trip and knew they were unlikely to be dangerous—less than half of one per cent of bats carry rabies. (In fact, non-blood-sucking bats are more dangerous than vampires because their dung can harbour a fungus that causes a deadly lung disease.) Rising to my full height in the cave I came eye to eye with a roosting vampire and smiled in delight. My teeth are one of my more prominent features, and smiling at animals is generally a bad thing because showing your teeth suggests you are about to use them. The other bat species in the cave had taken off before I could get close, but the vampires all flashed their fangs straight back at my unintentional threat.

Unlike the other bats, vampires are able to run on the ground, an adaptation for their blood-sucking lifestyle. From the air they locate warm-blooded prey, such as a cow or even a sleeping human, land nearby, then walk towards it on their back legs and elbows before making incisions with their razor-sharp teeth and lapping at the flow of blood (unlike the creature of myth they are named after, they don’t
suck blood—merely lick it). As they drink, their saliva mingles with the blood, releasing an enzyme with the truly wonderful name of draculin. This stops blood clotting, so the wound continues to bleed long after the bat has had its tablespoon or so of dinner.

While I had learnt all the above from my reading, I didn’t know that vampires can run while upside down, so when one abandoned its toothy threat display and scurried along the cave roof towards my face I was taken aback.

‘Hey!’ I said sharply, as if dealing with a cantankerous lion (and forgetting that this bat probably only understood Spanish). I’d always been taught not to run away from large animals, and had held my ground against lions, elephants, leopards and the like, but I instinctively took a step back from the bat, stones clattering at my heels, the sound reverberating in the cave. Loud enough to a human, the sound I’d made was possibly deafening to the four other bat species, who hunt using echolocation. They took off, several thousands of wings beating in the air and swirling around, the bats wanting to escape the noise without leaving the cave and facing the light. Despite this, they were so adept at using sonar not one collided with me in the maelstrom. The vampires, perturbed by the activity, joined the other species in the air.

Michael gave a not quite manly squeal as one of the vampires dive-bombed him, flying straight at the lens. Later he showed me the playback; while admittedly a bat approaching at speed is far more threatening in the widescreen he viewed it in, at the time his undignified exit from the cave was merely entertaining. He was okay, though, so I suggested we get back to work while I was still showing signs of life.

Re-entering the cave I heard Michael stumbling behind me. I understood it was difficult to simultaneously look through the camera and cover uneven terrain, and I had earlier kicked the stones myself, so I wasn’t frustrated until he said, ‘More energy, but move slowly!’

‘How?’ I said. The whole thing suddenly seemed so ludicrous that I burst out laughing. A startled bat devised a fitting punishment, lightening his load by relieving himself copiously onto my shirt.

For some reason I have always found the idea of monkeys defecating in their hands and throwing it at observers (not uncommon behaviour in zoos) wildly amusing, and even nicknamed one of my friends ‘Poo-monkey’, so perhaps what I’d received was a deserved double payback. However, monkeys eat fruit and bugs, which make disgusting enough droppings, but a diet of only blood makes for even nastier excrescences.

‘Oh man, that stinks!’ Michael said.

‘I’m just glad it wasn’t Robert Pattinson,’ I replied.

‘Hey man, that’s funny, say it again!’ said Michael, swinging the camera towards me.

Unfortunately, once more the moment was lost and my delivery was flat.

As the months went by, fewer and fewer emails came in from the company, and I knew that they would move on to other potential projects. I wasn’t offended and knew much of the blame lay with me.

Among what small disappointment I felt about it there was a nugget of delight. In the past I’d experienced failure by being a fool, but with television at last I’d found a field where I didn’t cut it because I wasn’t a big enough idiot.