the open air. So I wriggled along backwards
dragging the porcupine, and those last few feet seemed like miles. Just as we
reached the open air he gave a terrific bound and a wriggle in an attempt to
throw off my hand, but I hung on like grim death. I got shakily to my feet and
kept the animal aloft so he could do no damage to me or himself. He hung there
quite quietly; all the fight seemed to have gone out of him.
“Andraia . . .
Elias . . . come quick, I done catch beef,” I called.
They came
running, their torches bobbing through the rocks. When they saw what I held
they were astonished.
“Na Chook-chook
beef,” said Elias. “Which side Masa done fine um?”
“Here for dis
hole. But he done chop me too much. Get a bag to put him into, my hand done
tire.”
Elias opened a
big canvas bag and I neatly dropped my capture into it. This was my first
meeting with a porcupine, and to have captured it single-handed was, I felt,
something of a feat.
The Bush-tailed
Porcupine, or, as it is known locally, the chook-chook beef, is one of the
commonest animals in the Cameroons: it is found everywhere and in almost every
type of country. Most of the faint, twisting paths one found in the forest were
the result of the nightly perambulations of this rodent. They would, I found
later, make their homes anywhere, but they seemed to favour caves, and
particularly caves with small openings under a massive rock, or piles of rocks.
In nearly every cave one came across signs of their tenancy: footprints on a
sandy floor, a few cast quills, or a half-eaten fruit. In one cave I found
fresh palm nuts, which showed that this porcupine in question must have
travelled very long distances at night, for the nearest native farm at which he
could have obtained this commodity was some six miles away. In another cave I
found indications that these porcupines play in much the same way as an English
otter will. In this cave there was one wall which was a natural slide, a wall
of rock some eight feet high sloping to the ground at a gentle angle of
forty-five degrees. This slide had been worn smooth by the constant passage of
porcupine bodies or bottoms. Judging by the tracks in the sand, they scrambled
up to the top of this slope, slid down, walked round, climbed up again, and
slid down once more. They must have been indulging in this game for a number of
generations, as the rock-face was worn as smooth as glass. The pidgin-English
term for this animal is derived from the word “chook”, which means any thorn or
spike, and particularly the doctor’s hypodermic needle. In pidgin you form the
plural of a word by repeating it, so the Brush-tailed Porcupine became
naturally the chook-chook beef. I decided that this was a good name for the
animal, as I was sore and smarting all over from contact with it. Within two
days this specimen had become very tame, and would come to the door of his cage
to take fruit from my hand. He would only put up his spines, rattle his tail,
and stamp his feet if I put my hand right inside the cage and tried to touch
him. Later on he would even come to the bars and let me tickle his ears or
scratch a soothing spot under his chin, but this was only allowed if there were
bars between us.
After I had
finished my smoke and had described in boastful details to my hunters how I had
captured the porcupine, we continued on our way. Presently I made another
capture, and this made me feel better still: true, it was not such an important
specimen as the porcupine, but it was worth while, nevertheless. Clasped
tightly to a branch, some ten feet from the ground, my wandering torch beam
picked out a pair of sleeping chameleons. They were lying close together, their
big eyes closed, their legs tucked carefully in, and body-colour a pale and
deceiving silvery-green. We had broken the branch and shaken them into a bag
almost before they had woken up and realized what was happening. I presumed,
since they were
dragging the porcupine, and those last few feet seemed like miles. Just as we
reached the open air he gave a terrific bound and a wriggle in an attempt to
throw off my hand, but I hung on like grim death. I got shakily to my feet and
kept the animal aloft so he could do no damage to me or himself. He hung there
quite quietly; all the fight seemed to have gone out of him.
“Andraia . . .
Elias . . . come quick, I done catch beef,” I called.
They came
running, their torches bobbing through the rocks. When they saw what I held
they were astonished.
“Na Chook-chook
beef,” said Elias. “Which side Masa done fine um?”
“Here for dis
hole. But he done chop me too much. Get a bag to put him into, my hand done
tire.”
Elias opened a
big canvas bag and I neatly dropped my capture into it. This was my first
meeting with a porcupine, and to have captured it single-handed was, I felt,
something of a feat.
The Bush-tailed
Porcupine, or, as it is known locally, the chook-chook beef, is one of the
commonest animals in the Cameroons: it is found everywhere and in almost every
type of country. Most of the faint, twisting paths one found in the forest were
the result of the nightly perambulations of this rodent. They would, I found
later, make their homes anywhere, but they seemed to favour caves, and
particularly caves with small openings under a massive rock, or piles of rocks.
In nearly every cave one came across signs of their tenancy: footprints on a
sandy floor, a few cast quills, or a half-eaten fruit. In one cave I found
fresh palm nuts, which showed that this porcupine in question must have
travelled very long distances at night, for the nearest native farm at which he
could have obtained this commodity was some six miles away. In another cave I
found indications that these porcupines play in much the same way as an English
otter will. In this cave there was one wall which was a natural slide, a wall
of rock some eight feet high sloping to the ground at a gentle angle of
forty-five degrees. This slide had been worn smooth by the constant passage of
porcupine bodies or bottoms. Judging by the tracks in the sand, they scrambled
up to the top of this slope, slid down, walked round, climbed up again, and
slid down once more. They must have been indulging in this game for a number of
generations, as the rock-face was worn as smooth as glass. The pidgin-English
term for this animal is derived from the word “chook”, which means any thorn or
spike, and particularly the doctor’s hypodermic needle. In pidgin you form the
plural of a word by repeating it, so the Brush-tailed Porcupine became
naturally the chook-chook beef. I decided that this was a good name for the
animal, as I was sore and smarting all over from contact with it. Within two
days this specimen had become very tame, and would come to the door of his cage
to take fruit from my hand. He would only put up his spines, rattle his tail,
and stamp his feet if I put my hand right inside the cage and tried to touch
him. Later on he would even come to the bars and let me tickle his ears or
scratch a soothing spot under his chin, but this was only allowed if there were
bars between us.
After I had
finished my smoke and had described in boastful details to my hunters how I had
captured the porcupine, we continued on our way. Presently I made another
capture, and this made me feel better still: true, it was not such an important
specimen as the porcupine, but it was worth while, nevertheless. Clasped
tightly to a branch, some ten feet from the ground, my wandering torch beam
picked out a pair of sleeping chameleons. They were lying close together, their
big eyes closed, their legs tucked carefully in, and body-colour a pale and
deceiving silvery-green. We had broken the branch and shaken them into a bag
almost before they had woken up and realized what was happening. I presumed,
since they were
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