Friday 18 November 2005 - Treefrogging
I was in a dark African swamp and Michael had just seen the vine he was about to
grab slither slowly towards him. "Arne, what should I do if I see a green mamba?".
"Run" said Arne, one of the world's premier herpetologists, with characteristic Danish
dryness. I decided then and there that treefroggery was not for me.
Earlier in the village, Arne had asked me why I had agreed to join him in his treefrog
quest. I stood before him in ridiculous nipple-high rubber pants and briefly wondered the same thing before answering with something as silly as my pants, "Well the
Japanese say a wise man climbs Mt Fuji once, but only a fool climbs it twice...I
should give it a chance." The path to the swamp was an hour long walk along a
narrow ditch through the manioc fields and the thick secondary forest. Clear water
trickled through the terraced root structure of the liliana and manioc trees. Waded
about in the water with Michael, Arne and three local boys, torches drawn, ears
pricked. Frog music was broadcasting from everywhere. Surely it shouldn't be too
hard. I turned my torch off, sat on a log and tried to get a bearing on a blighter.
Usually they were having a rather repetitive conversation with a nearby prospective
mate which in treefroggish probably went something like this-
Boy frog- rebbit -"how about it?"-
Girl frog- arebbit -"how about what?"-
Boy frog- rebbIT -"how about IT!”
Rinse and repeat. Always repeat.
Anyway, you had to concentrate on one and not be tempted to go after the other, even
if your original target fell silent for awhile, otherwise you would certainly get neither.
I couldn't seem to find any that were in convenient grasping distance and had to thrust
my head through vines and spiderwebs and ants and every other African insect drawn
to my torchlight. So I beat a retreat back into the stream and tried again until I got
tired of my solo efforts and went to see if I'd be more useful helping others. Arne was poised near a tall crop of bamboo and reeds. Despite being deaf, blind and arthritic,
his awesome reputation and intimidating eyebrows alone were sufficient to have
every tree frog in his vicinity realise the futility of its position and offer itself up. I
dazzled one lucky victim ("hydrolus fantasticus", murmured Arne) sitting on a veiny leaf with my torchlight while Arne's experienced hand made the snatch, then the stuff,
into the plastic bag. If the frog was a coat it would be reversible, one side vivid green, one side scarlet. Michael had another frog in his sights, high atop a thin bamboo reed.
Arne grabbed a long stick, placed one end next to the frog and talked the frog into
shuffling across. Game over.
Congo tree frog…perhaps hydrolus fantasticus…perhaps not…
(Photo- Michael Hurley)
As for me, the novelty of splashing and stumbling in the wet and the dark for damned
elusive frogs quickly wore off. Arne and I came across a spider as wide as a plate,
then Michael asked Arne if his moving green vine was a green mamba or a
boomslang (the first insanely venomous and territorial, the second just insanely
venomous) and I decided to abandon the swamp with its delights of treefrogs, snakes,
spiders, fireants, malaria- and possibly ebola- carrying mosquitos. Michael and Arne
had at least a couple of hours left in them yet but I grabbed a village boy, resolutely
straightened my silly plastic pants and headed home. I asked my guide "nkombo na
yo, nini?- what is your name?". He was about 11 in shorts, t-shirt and flipflops. "Charley", he squeaked. An appropriate name for a little boy, I thought. Then after a
pause he clarified with the infinitely grander, "Charlemagne". Phew.
Arne and Michael came back some time later to find the compound lit by lanterns as
the generator had died for the night. I was grateful it was too dark to really look Arne in the eye after so cowardly abandoning his beloved calling of treefroggery.
