Gerald Durrell - Two in the Bush

For

CHRIS and JIM

in memory of

Leeches, Lyrebirds and the

Bicycle in the Chimney

(not to mention the Glow-worms)

Contents

Land of the Long White Cloud

The Attic of the World

The Vanishing Jungle

A Word in Advance

This is the chronicle of a six-month journey which took us through New Zealand, Australia and Malaya. The reasons for this journey were twofold firstly that I wanted to see what was being done about conservation in these countries, and secondly that the BBC wanted to make a series of television films on the same subject. I am acutely conscious of the fact that the length of time we spent in each country gives the impression of an extremely rapid Cooks tour and, quite obviously, I have probably misshapen the truth and left out a number of things which I should have mentioned.

It is, strangely enough, very difficult to write a book like this and try to strike a happy medium between a work entitled Two and a Half Days in Djakarta or South East Asia Exposed and to write the literal truth, as you see it, which may appear offensive to the many people who gave you such unstinting help and such warm hospitality; people unfortunately have a habit of taking things personally.

So may I take this opportunity to fend off a few of the irate letters which I will inevitably receive from New Zealanders, Australians and Malayans, telling me that no one who has spent only six weeks in the country has the right to criticise. I think that having spent five minutes in a place you have every right to criticise. Whether your criticisms are valid or not is for the reader to decide. But at any rate, I can say one thing with all honesty that it was a glorious trip and I enjoyed every moment of it.

PART ONE

Land of the Long White Cloud

The Arrival

We had meant to creep unobtrusively into New Zealand, film and see what we wanted to, and then creep unobtrusively out again. But when the ship docked at Auckland, we found that the Wildlife Department having been appraised of our arrival had unrolled a red carpet of embarrassing dimensions for us. The first intimation of this was the arrival on board of a short, stocky individual (looking not unlike a muscular Tweedle Dum) with round, innocent baby-blue eyes and a wide grin.

I, he proclaimed, crushing my hand in an iron grasp, am Brian Bell of the Wildlife Service. The department has given me the job of escorting you round New Zealand and making sure that you see all you want to see.

Thats extremely kind of the department, I said, but I had really no intention of worrying...

I have driven your Land-Rover up from Wellington, interrupted Brian firmly, and yesterday I met your two colleagues from the BBC and they are on their way up to meet us.

Thats very kind... I began.

Also, continued Brian as if I had not spoken, fixing me with his hypnotic blue stare, I have worked out an itinerary for you. Just cross out the things you dont want to do.

He handed me a sheaf of typewritten documents that looked like a cross between the plans for a royal state visit and some gigantic army manoeuvres. It was full of fascinating suggestions and orders, such as June five, 0500 hours, see royal albatross, Taiaroa Head. Had the albatross, I wondered dazedly, been issued with a similar itinerary and, if so, would they fly past in formation and dip their wings in salute? But in spite of these intriguing thoughts, I was a bit alarmed for I did not want my trip to New Zealand to degenerate into that hideous thing, the conducted tour. However, before I could voice an opinion on the matter, Brian had glanced at his watch, scowled terrifyingly, muttered to himself and then disappeared at a smart trot. I was leaning against the rail, clutching my massive itinerary and feeling slightly dazed, when Jacquie appeared.

Who was that bloke in the brown suit I saw you talking to? she asked.

That was one Brian Bell, I replied, handing her the itinerary. Hes from the Wildlife Department and he has been sent especially to Organise us with a capital O.

I thought thats just what you wanted to avoid? said Jacquie. It was, I said gloomily.

She glanced rapidly through the itinerary and raised her eyebrows.

How long do they think were staying ten years? she asked.

At that moment Brian returned and I introduced him to Jacquie.

Pleased to meet you, he said absently. Now, all your luggage has gone ashore and I have arranged customs clearance. Well load it up and drive to the hotel. The first press conference Ive arranged for eleven oclock and the second one for two-thirty. Then theres the TV interview tonight, but we neednt worry about that yet. So if youre ready, we can get started.

Our minds in a whirl, we were hustled ashore by Brian and the next few hours were among the most hectic I have ever spent. When we arrived at the hotel Brian handed us over to the government PRO, Terry Egan, a small man with a humorous, carunculated face and a pleasant wit.

Ill leave you with Terry, said Brian, and see you later. Ive got a bit more Organising to do.

What was he going to Organise, I wondered? A guard of honour consisting of ten thousand Kiwis to line the streets as we left Auckland? In the very short time I had known Brian Bell I felt that he might be capable of Organising even this. So Brian left us, and hardly had he disappeared when the first gaggle of reporters arrived. After that, things became increasingly chaotic. We were photographed from every conceivable angle and our most fatuous statements treated with the reverence that would be accorded to the utterances of a couple of sages. Then came a welcome but all too brief pause for lunch, and the whole thing started all over again. Late in the afternoon, as the last of the reporters left, I turned to Terry as a drowning man might turn to a straw.

Terry, I implored hoarsely, isnt there a nice, quiet place we can go and have a drink and not talk for ten minutes or so... some peaceful nirvana where reporters are not allowed?

Yes, said Terry promptly, I can jack that up... know the very place.

Well, while you have a drink Ill go and have a bath, said Jacquie.

Okay, we wont be long, I said. I just want something to soothe my shattered nerves. If anyone else asks me what I think of New Zealand, I shall scream.

Yes, said Jacquie, what did you say to that female reporter who asked you that? I couldnt hear.

He said that he thought the little bit of the docks that hed seen were very pretty, said Terry chuckling.

You shouldnt say things like that, said Jacquie.

Well, it was a silly question and it deserved a silly answer.

Come on, said Terry, we both need a drink.

I followed Terry out of the hotel and down the street. We turned several corners and then came to a brown door, through which Terry dived. I followed him thirstily into what I thought was going to be a haven of peace and tranquillity.

I shall always attribute my uncertain start in New Zealand to the fact that I was introduced too early to what is known as the five oclock swill. The phrase has, when you consider it, a wonderful pastoral one might almost say idyllic ring to it. It conjures up a picture of fat but hungry porcines, all freshly scrubbed, eagerly and gratefully partaking of their warm mash from the horny but kindly hands of a jovial farmer, a twinkling-eyed son of the soil.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

The five oclock swill is the direct result of New Zealands imbecilic licensing laws. In order to prevent people from getting drunk the pubs close at six, just after the office workers leave work. This means that they have to leave their place of employment, rush frantically to the nearest pub, and make a desperate attempt to drink as much beer as they can in the shortest possible time. As a means of cutting down on drunkenness, this is quite one of the most illogical deterrents I have come across.