Two in the Bush (17 page)

When I had recovered from my amorous interlude with the emu, David took me to see some specimens of which he was – quite rightly – inordinately proud: it was his breeding colony of
taipan, Australia’s deadliest snake. Just simply keeping some snakes in captivity is difficult, and to keep them and breed them is a great achievement, but to have kept and bred something as
rare and shy as a taipan is a very great triumph. They are the third largest poisonous snake in the world (only being beaten by the king cobra and the black mamba) and can grow to a length of
eleven feet; a large one can produce as much as three hundred milligrammes of poison, an unpleasant dose to have injected into your bloodstream should you be bitten. It is twice as much venom as is
produced by any other poisonous Australian snake, and is pumped into you with the aid of half-inch long fangs.

David’s group were lolling about elegantly in their well-appointed cage, and they really looked wonderful. Their bodies were a rich, burnished copper, so that they looked as if they had
been newly polished; their underparts were a sort of iridescent mother-of-pearl, and their faces a pale, biscuit brown. They had very slender necks and large lustrous eyes and they looked what they
were: beautiful and deadly. David told me of the exciting hunts he had been on to capture these snakes – hunts which were not only exciting but dangerous as well, for a taipan has been known
to kill a horse in five minutes with a well-aimed bite. He showed me Alexandra, a slim and beautiful seven footer, who was the proud mother that had regularly laid twenty eggs each year. David
removed the eggs and kept them in a special incubator where, after a hundred and seven days of incubation, they finally hatched. The remarkable thing was that the eggs measured two and a half
inches by one and a half, and yet the babies that hatched out from them measured fifteen inches long: taipans are obviously adept at getting a quart into a pint pot. David regularly
‘milks’ his snakes of their venom, and this is then sent to the Commonwealth Serum Laboratory to be made into taipan anti-venom, which has already saved the lives of a number of people
who have had the misfortune to be bitten. This ‘milking’ is done by covering a glass or some similar receptacle with a piece of gauze. The snake is then caught, its mouth opened, and
the fangs are sunk through the gauze. The poison then drips into the glass container.

At that moment the bell outside the house clanged imperiously and two brolgas, or native cranes, in a paddock nearby spread their wings and started a wild dance, pointing their beaks to the sky
and trumpeting like mad.

‘Tea’s ready,’ said David laconically. ‘They always dance when they hear the bell. Very useful if you want to photograph them.’

The brolgas continued their mad dance while we drank our tea and watched them. They were handsome birds, a soft slate grey with a vivid red and yellow marking on the head. Like most cranes they
were consummate dancers and pranced and pirouetted and bowed in the most dainty manner; in the wild state they will sometimes gather together in great groups and hold a sort of avian ball, waltzing
and prancing with each other under the blue skies, a sight which – according to many people – is one of the most extraordinary things you can see in Australia.

After tea, David took us to see the animal for which he is most famous; the unbelievable duck-billed platypus. Although the platypus has been written up
ad nauseam
, it is such an
incredible creature that it’s worth running over its more startling features once again. The rubbery beak and the webbed feet are like a duck’s; the body is covered with a short and
exceedingly soft fur like that of a mole; the short, somewhat paddle-shaped tail resembles that of a beaver; on the hind legs the male is armed with spurs that contain a poison almost as virulent
as that of a snake; finally, as if all that was not enough, it is a mammal (which means that it is warm-blooded and suckles its young on milk) but the young are hatched out of eggs. The platypus,
incidentally, has no teats like a normal mammal, but merely an area of spongy skin through which it exudes the milk which the young ones then lap up. It is a strictly insectivorous creature,
feeding on fresh-water crayfish, worms and grabs, and consuming its own weight in these delicacies each night. It is this prodigious appetite that is one of the many reasons that platypus are so
difficult to keep in captivity.

David’s pair were housed in his specially designed platypusary. This was a large, shallow pond, at one end of which were the wooden sleeping quarters – shallow boxes filled with hay
connected to the pond by long wooden tunnels lined with Sorbo rubber. The reason for this is that in the wild state the platypus burrows are narrow, and when the animal wends its way up the burrow
to its bedroom the surplus moisture in its fur is squeezed out by contact with the walls of the burrow: in captivity, David has found that it is best to line the tunnels with hay or Sorbo rubber,
which will perform the same function, for should a platypus reach his bedroom with his fur still damp he will almost inevitably catch a chill and die. The platypuses were not in their pond when we
arrived at the platypusary, so David obligingly opened up a bedroom, plunged his hand into the crisp hay bed, and pulled one out for our inspection.

Now, although I had never seen a live platypus, I had, over the years, seen films and photographs of them; I knew about their curious anatomy, how many eggs they lay, what they feed on, and so
on. In fact I felt I knew the platypus fairly well, but as I gazed at the creature wriggling in David’s hands I suddenly realised that all my study of the platypus over the years had left me
completely unprepared for one thing: the personality of the beast. The curve of the beak gave it a benign and perpetual smile, and its round, brown, boot-button eyes gleamed with personality. It
looked, quite frankly, like one of Donald Duck’s nicer relatives clad in a fur coat some three sizes too large for it. You almost expected it to quack and in fact the noise it did make
resembled the disgruntled growl of an indignant broody hen. David placed the platypus on the ground and it waddled about eagerly, with movements reminiscent of a baby otter, snuffling interestedly
at every object it came across.

David has not only kept and bred the platypus in captivity (the first man to do so) but he has twice undertaken the hazardous task of accompanying platypus to the New York Zoological Society.
When you consider the organisation involved in such a venture, the mind boggles: the thousands of worms, crayfish and frogs to be obtained for the journey; the special platypusary that has to be
built; the slow and careful conditioning of the animals to prepare them for the trip, for platypuses are immensely highly strung and any upset can make them go off their food and die. It says much
for David’s abilities and patience that on both occasions he landed his charges alive and well, and they lived successfully for a number of years in the United States.

‘You know, there was a very odd rumour circulating in England during the war,’ I said to David, ‘it was about 1942, if I remember right. Someone told me that a platypus was
being sent to the London Zoo, but I heard no more about it, so I suppose it was only a rumour. Do you know anything about it?’

‘That wasn’t a rumour,’ said David grinning, ‘that was a fact’ ‘What,’ I asked in astonishment, ‘ferrying platypus about in the middle of a world
war?’

‘Yes’, said David, ‘sounds a bit mad, doesn’t it? Suddenly, in the middle of the war, Winston Churchill decided that he wanted a platypus. Whether he thought it would be
good for morale, or a good propaganda story, or whether he just wanted a platypus, I don’t know; anyway, I was approached by Menzies and given the job of catching the animal, getting it used
to captivity and preparing it for the voyage. Well, I got a nice young male and after keeping him for six months I thought he was about ready for the voyage. I’d briefed an apprentice on the
ship about keeping the animal, and given him masses of written instructions as well. The whole ship was intensely interested in the scheme and I got wonderful co-operation, so eventually the
platypus sailed on the
Port Philip
.’

David paused and gazed thoughtfully down at the platypus, which was endeavouring to eat his shoe, then he bent and picked it up carefully by its tail and slid it into its bedroom.

‘Do you know,’ he continued, ‘they got that platypus right across the Pacific, through the Panama Canal, across the Atlantic and then – two days out from Liverpool
– there was a submarine alert. Well, they had to drop depth charges, of course. As I told you, a platypus is highly temperamental and very susceptible to noise; the depth charges exploding
were the last straw as far as the animal was concerned, and it just died. Two days out from Liverpool!’

To me the whole story was one of the most gloriously quixotic things I had ever heard. Humanity being torn asunder by the most terrible war in history, and in the middle of it Churchill, with
his cigar, trenchantly demanding a platypus (of all things), and on the other side of the world David carefully and patiently training a young platypus and preparing it for the long voyage through
submarine-infested waters. What a pity the story did not have a happy ending. But, even so, what a magnificently idiotic thing to do at that time. I doubt whether Hitler, even in his saner moments,
would have ever had the delightful eccentricity of mind to ask for a duck-billed platypus in the middle of the war.

After three days spent filming in the charming company of David and his wife, we reluctantly had to pack up our gear and move down south again to Melbourne. The Wildlife Department there had
organised a bear hunt for us which we did not want to miss, and on the way down through New South Wales we hoped to see the mallee-fowl, one of Australia’s more incredible birds. So we said
goodbye to David and his wife and, leaving his charming sanctuary started on the long drive down to Melbourne.

Our first landfall was the small town of Griffiths in the centre of New South Wales. Near the town lay a fair-sized area of Mallee country, and it was here we hoped to see the mallee-fowl. At
Griffiths we were met by Bevan Bowan of CSTRO (the Commonwealth Scientific and Industrial Research Organization). Under Harry Frith, the director of the Wildlife Survey section of this
organisation, Bevan had been helping in a study of the breeding habits and ecology of the mallee-fowl, and so he was to act as our guide and adviser.

Mallee scrub consists of a small species of eucalyptus between six and twenty feet high, and in places the trees grow very close together, their branches entwining and forming a continuous
canopy. Although at first sight the Mallee scrub looks dead, grey, desiccated and devoid of life, it is, in reality, one of the most interesting types of country to be found in Australia, for many
species of insect and bird have adapted themselves to this somewhat harsh environment and are found nowhere else. As many isolated groups of islands in the world (the Galapagos for example) have
evolved their own unique species, so the Mallee scrub, spread like a string of islands over the continent, has evolved its own special fauna; but without doubt the most interesting species to
inhabit the Mallee scrub is the mallee-fowl – a handsome, turkey-sized bird that (to borrow Harry Frith’s description) builds an incubator. Unfortunately, it was not the breeding season
when Bevan took us out to the Mallee scrub, but we were lucky enough to see both the incubator and its owners.

The grey-green Mallee we drove through was hot, silent and apparently lifeless. After we had driven some little distance into the scrub, Bevan pulled up and said that we would go the rest of the
way on foot, as this would give us a better chance of seeing a mallee-fowl if there were any about. It was during this short walk that I discovered that the Mallee is not as deserted and lifeless
as it appears: bronze-winged pigeons, their wings purring among the leaves, took frantic flights as we approached; tiny, slim brown lizards with golden eyes glided among the fallen leaves under our
feet, and turning over a rotten log I found a small, black and extremely malevolent scorpion crouching with a misanthropic air. Digging my hand into the earth underneath the log I dredged up two
extraordinary little creatures: at first sight they looked like golden snakes, some five inches long and as slender as a matchstick; it was only by looking at them closely that you noticed the four
frail, rudimentary legs which fitted in grooves in the skin alongside the body. When they moved these lizards did not use their legs at all, but kept them held in to the side of their bodies and
progressed as a snake does. I got quite enthusiastic over my find, but Chris was champing at the bit and eager to get to grips with the mallee-fowl, so I reluctantly returned the lizards to their
earthy bed and we moved on.

Presently we came to a slight clearing and in the centre of it was what appeared to be a crater made by a small but vigorous bomb. The hole itself was the circumference of a small dustbin, but
the earth had been thrown up around it in a wall measuring some twelve feet across. This, Bevan explained, was the incubator, and he went on to explain all the mysteries of these strange
earthworks. In the winter time the cock mallee-fowl (sometimes aided by a hen) digs out this enormous crater and then he fills the hole in the middle with rotting vegetation and covers it carefully
with sand. The rain and the sun do their work, the vegetation ferments, and soon the temperature in the interior of the incubator rises. Then he uncovers the nest and the females come and lay their
eggs, arranging them in layers in the vegetation, big end up; the cock then carefully covers them up with sand. Now if the malee-fowl was a reptile, that would be the end of the job: he would
simply go away and leave the eggs to be hatched out by the heat of the sun, but the mallee-fowl is more particular about his eggs than the average reptile, and he likes them kept at a steady
ninety-five degrees. On the face of it you might think this was an impossible task for a bird, but the mallee-fowl manages very successfully. Either his tongue or the soft membrane inside his beak
(no one is quite sure which as yet) acts as a built-in thermometer and with it he can gauge the temperature in the nest with incredible accuracy. So, day after day, he tends the nest, plunging his
open beak into the sand to judge the heat, and removing or adding more material as the temperature rises or falls; daily, for six or seven months, the bird watches his nest, making sure that the
precious eggs are neither chilled nor cooked. His devotion to his task is extraordinary. If rain clouds appear and a storm seems to be threatening, the mallee-fowl will run to his nest and
frantically pile the sand in a cone over the nest chamber, thus providing a sort of ‘roof’ off which the rain can run. Attack the nest with a shovel and try to uncover the eggs, and
again the cock arrives at the double, and so great is his anxiety that he will stand next to you and shovel the sand back into the nest with his feet as fast as you uncover it. Eventually, all the
bird’s hard work is rewarded and the eggs hatch, but, once having escaped from the egg, the chick finds itself buried under some two feet of hot sand and has to dig its way out. This is a
slow and laborious process and can take the chick anything from two to fifteen hours before he breaks through the surface. Once out of the mound the chick is extremely weak and helpless and it
generally staggers away from the mound to the nearest patch of shade, where it rests and gains strength. Within two hours it is strong enough to run quite fast, and within twenty-four hours it can
fly.