Three Singles to Adventure

CHAPTER FIVE After the Anteater

To capture a giant anteater had been one of our main reasons for going to the Rupununi, for we had heard that they were much easier to catch in the grassland than in the forests of Guiana.

So for three days after our arrival at Karanambo we did nothing but talk and think about anteaters, until eventually McTurk promised to see what he could do about the matter.

One morning just after breakfast a short, squat Amerindian materialized in front of the house, in the disconcertingly silent way these people do. He had a bronze, Mongolian-looking face, and his dark slit eyes were saved from being crafty by the shy twinkle in them. He was dressed quite simply in the remains of a shirt and pants, and on his sleek black head was perched an absurd pixie hat constructed out of what once used to be velvet. To anyone who had been expecting a fierce warrior, clad in a vivid feather head-dress and daubed tribal signs in clay, he would have been a great disappointment. As it was, he had an air of dour confidence about him, which I found comforting.

"This is Francis," said McTurk, waving at the apparition. "I think he knows where you might find an anteater."

We could not have greeted him more delightedly if he had known the whereabouts of a large reef of gold. And we discovered after some questioning that Francis did know where an anteater was, having seen one some three days before, but whether it was still there or not was another matter. McTurk suggested that Francis should go and see, and, if the creature was still hanging around, he would come and fetch us and we would have a try at catching it. Francis smiled shyly and agreed to the plan. He went off and returned the next morning to say that he had been successful: he had found where the anteater was living, and was willing to lead us there the next day.

"How are we to reach the place?" I asked McTurk.

"On horses, of course," he answered. "It's no use going in the jeep; you'll have to crisscross about the savannah a good bit, and the jeep's no use for that sort of thing."

I turned to Bob.

"Can you ride?" I inquired hopefully.

"Well, I've been on a horse, if that's what you mean," said Bob cautiously, and then hastily added, "only a very quiet one, of course."

"If we have nice docile mounts I expect we can manage," I said to McTurk.

"Oh, I'll pick you out a pair of quiet animals," said McTurk, and he went off with Francis to arrange the details.

Later he told us that we were to meet Francis and the horses at a spot about two miles away on the following morning.

From there we were to strike out into the unknown.

The grassland was a lovely green-golden in the first rays of the sun when we set off, bumping our way in the jeep towards the distant line of trees, which was the place of rendezvous. The sky was a delicate jay's-wing blue, and high above us two minute hawks circled slowly, searching the vast grassland for their breakfast. Dragonflies, vivid as fireworks, shot across the swerving nose of the jeep, and the warm wind of our progress stirred and tumbled the fawn dust of the track into a swirling cloud behind us. McTurk, holding the steering wheel negligently with one hand and using the other to cram his hat more firmly on his head, leant across and started to tell me something, shouting to make himself heard above the roar of the engine and the wind.

"This Indian … Francis … thought I'd warn you … apt to be a bit queer … gets excited … sort of fits, I think … says the world turns round inside his head … no reason why today … thought I'd warn you … quite harmless, of course."

"Are you sure he's harmless?" I roared back, aware of a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

"Oh, quite harmless, definitely."

"What's all this?" inquired Bob from the back seat.

"McTurk says Francis has fits," I said soothingly.

"Has what?" shouted Bob. "Fits."

"Fits?"

"Yes, you know … goes a bit queer in the head sometimes. But McTurk says he's quite harmless."

"My God!" said Bob sepulchrally, lying back in his seat and closing his eyes, an expression of extreme martyrdom on his face.

We reached the trees, and there, squatting on the ground, was Francis, his pixie hat tilted at a rakish angle. Behind him stood the horses in a dejected half-circle, heads drooping and reins dangling. They were clad in high pommelled and extremely uncomfortable-looking saddles. We extracted ourselves from the jeep and greeted Francis with a slightly strained joviality. McTurk wished us good hunting, turned the jeep and started off with a roar that sent all the horses on to their hind legs, stirrups and bits jangling.

Francis calmed them somewhat and led them forward for our inspection. We gazed at our mounts, and they gazed back, with equal suspicion.

"Which one are you going to have?" I asked Bob.

"I don't suppose it'll make much difference," he said, "but I'll have the brown with the cast in its eye."

That left me with a large grey that appeared to have a good deal of mule in its make-up. I addressed it in what I hoped was a cheerful voice and stepped up to its side, whereupon it waltzed sideways and showed the whites of its eyes.

"Good boy," I crooned huskily, trying to get my foot into the stirrup.

"It's not a he, it's a she," said Bob helpfully.

I at last managed to hoist myself on to my mount's bony back, and I gathered up the reins hastily. Bob's beast seemed more tractable, letting him get mounted before showing any signs of restiveness. Once he was planted in the saddle, however, it proceeded to walk backwards, quite slowly but with grim determination, and would, I think, have gone on until it reached the Brazilian border if its progress had not been halted by a large and prickly bush. It stopped dead and refused to move.

By this time Francis had mounted his grim black horse and was jogging off down the path, so, with an effort, I pulled my mount over and followed him. Bob's cries of encouragement to his steed grew faint in the distance. We rounded a corner, and he became lost to view. Presently he caught up with us, his horse cleverly executing a form of motion that was a cross between a walk and a trot, while Bob jolted in the saddle, red in the face, clutching in one hand a large twig with which he be laboured the creature's backside whenever he could spare a hand to do so. I reigned in and watched his progress with interest.

"How does it feel?" I inquired as he passed.

He gave me an awful look.

"It… would … be … all… right…" he replied, speaking between jolts, "if. he. would. only. move. properly."

"Wait a second," I said helpfully, "and I'll come up behind and give him a slap."

From behind. Bob and his steed looked as though they were performing an intricate rumba of the more Latin variety. I kicked my mount into a trot, and as I drew level –with the waggling rump of the animal in front I gathered up my reins and leant over to give it a slap. Up till then my horse's actions had been exemplary, but now he decided that I was making a sly and dastardly attack on him for no reason at all, so he gathered himself into a bunch and leapt forward with the alacrity of a grasshopper. I had a quick glimpse of Bob's surprised face, and then we were shooting down the path towards Francis. As we drew level with him he turned in his saddle and grinned broadly. He chirruped to his horse, flapped the reins on its neck, and, before I realized what was happening, we were galloping neck and neck down the path, Francis uttering strange guttural yelps to his mount to encourage it to further efforts.

"Francis!" I yelled.

"This is not a race … I'm trying to stop … stop!" The idea slowly took root in our guide's mind, and a look of acute disappointment spread over his face. Reluctantly he drew in his horse, and, to my infinite relief, mine followed suit. We stopped and waited until Bob danced up on his animal, and then I worked out a new arrangement: Francis was to lead. Bob was to follow him, and I was to bring up the rear, and thus keep Bob's steed up to the mark. So, at a gentle walk, we continued on our way.

The sun was now very hot, and the savannah stretched away before us, shimmering in its rays. Mile upon mile of grassland, green, gold, and brown, and in the distance, it seemed at the very rim of the world, a line of humpbacked mountains of pale greeny-blue. There was no life to be seen on this ocean of grass; the only moving things were ourselves and our shadows. For over two hours we rode through the knee-high grass, led by Francis who was slouching at ease in his saddle, his hat over his eyes, apparently asleep. The monotony of the view and the hot sun made us sleepy, and we followed our guide's example and dozed.

Suddenly I opened my eyes and found to my surprise that the flat savannah had produced a hollow, a great oval crater with gently sloping sides, and in the centre was a reed-fringed lake, its banks covered with a scattering of stunted bushes. As we skirted the lake everything seemed suddenly to come to life: a small cayman slid into the smooth waters with hardly a ripple; ten jabiru storks marched solemnly along the further shore, gazing down their long beaks in a meditative kind of way; the bushes were full of tiny birds, twittering and fluttering.

"Bob, wake up and enjoy the fauna," I suggested.

He peeped sleepily from under the brim of his hat, said "Um" as intelligently as he could, and went back to sleep again.

Two emerald green lizards darted across the path between my horse's slowly plodding hoofs, so eager in their pursuit of each other that they never noticed us. A diminutive kingfisher dropped from a branch into the lake and flew up to his perch again with something in his beak. Gold and black dragonflies zoomed about the reeds and hovered over the tiny pink orchids that bloomed like a mist over the swampy ground. On a battered tree stump sat a pair of black vultures: they watched us with a macabre hopefulness that was far from reassuring, in view of our guide's mental condition. We rode past the lake and headed once more across the grassland, and the twittering of the birds faded and died behind us. Then there was only the steady swish of our horse's legs pushing through the grass. I went to sleep.

I was awakened by my horse ambling to a standstill.

I found that Francis had also awakened and now sat on his horse surveying the area like a battered Napoleon. In front of us the land lay flat as a chess-board; on our left the ground rose gently, the slope covered with great clumps of grass and stunted bushes. I rode up alongside our guide and looked at him inquiringly. He waved a brown hand and gestured at the country. I presumed that we had arrived at anteater territory.

"What is it?" inquired Bob.

"I think this is where he saw the anteater."

Francis, we had been assured, could speak English, and now was the great moment when he was to give us the details of the chase. Looking me squarely in the eye he proceeded to utter a series of sounds which, for sheer in comprehensibility I have rarely heard equalled. He repeated it twice while I listened carefully, but still I could not make out a single word that seemed at all familiar. I turned to Bob, who had been easing himself painfully up and down in the saddle and taking no part in this exchange.

"Didn't you say you could speak an Indian dialect?"

"Well, yes. But those were Indians in Paraguay , and I don't think it's anything like Munchi."

"Can you remember any?"

"Yes, I think so. Just a smattering."

"Well have a shot at trying to understand what Francis is saying."

"Isn't he talking English?" asked Bob in surprise.

"For all I can make of it he might be talking Patagonian. Go on, Francis, say it again."

Francis, with a long-suffering air, repeated his little speech. Bob listened carefully with a frown on his face.

"No," he said at last, "I can't make anything of it. It's certainly not English."

We looked at Francis, and he looked pityingly back at us.

Soon, however, an idea occurred to him, and with many gestures and shrill cries he at last managed to explain what he was getting at. This was the place where he had seen the anteater. Somewhere in this area it was probably asleep here he folded his hands against his cheek, closed his eyes and uttered loud snores. We were to spread out into a line and beat through the undergrowth, making as much noise as possible.

So we spread out at thirty-yard intervals and urged our steeds through the long grass with loud cries and yodel lings feeling somewhat stupid as we did so. Francis, away on my right, was giving a very fair imitation of a pack of hounds in full cry while on my left I could hear Bob singing snatches of Loch-Lomond, interspersed with shrill screeches of "shoo!" – a combination guaranteed to flush any anteater. Thus we progressed for about half a mile, until my throat was sore with shouting, and I was beginning to wonder if there really had been an anteater there, or if, indeed, there were any anteaters in Guiana at all. My cries lost their first rich quality and became more like the depressed cawing of a lone crow.

Suddenly Francis uttered a piercing and triumphant cry, and I could see a dark shape bobbing through the long grass in front of his horse. I turned my steed and rode towards it as fast as I could, yelling to Bob as I did so. My horse staggered wildly over the tussocks of grass and the deep heat cracks in the soil as I urged him on. The dark shape burst from the cover of the long grass and started off across a comparatively grass less plain at a rolling gallop, and I saw that it was indeed an anteater, and a bigger one than any I had seen in captivity. He travelled across the plain at remarkable speed, his great icicle shaped head swinging from side to side, and his shaggy tail streaming out behind him like a pennant. Francis was in hot pursuit, uncoiling his lasso as he rode and cheering his horse on with wild, staccato cries. I had by now extricated my horse from the long grass, and I headed him towards the anteater, but no sooner did he catch sight of our quarry than he decided he did not like it, and he turned and made off in the opposite direction with speed and determination. It took me all my time to turn him, for his mouth was like a bucket, but eventually I managed to gain a certain control over him.

Even so, we approached the fray in a circular and crab-like fashion. I was just in time to see Francis gallop alongside the anteater, and, whirling his lasso, drop it over the beast's head. It was a bad throw, for the noose slipped right over the anteater's head, and he simply cantered straight through it, swerved wildly and headed back towards the long grass. Francis was forced to pause, haul in his rope and recoil it, and meanwhile the quarry was heading at full speed for thick undergrowth, in which it would be impossible for Francis to lasso him.

Urging my reluctant mount forward I succeeded in heading the anteater off, and steering him back on to the plain, and by keeping my horse at a brisk canter I found I could stay alongside the animal.

The anteater galloped on over the plain, hissing and snorting down his long nose, his stunted little legs thumping on the sun-baked earth. Francis caught us up again, spun his rope round two or three times, and dropped it neatly over the animal's forequarters, pulling the noose tight as it reached its waist. He was off his horse in a second, and, hanging grimly to the rope, he was dragged across the grass by the enraged anteater. Asking Bob to hold the horses, I joined Francis on the end of the rope. The anteater had incredible strength in his thick bow legs and shaggy body, and it was all the two of us could do to bring him to a standstill. Francis, the sweat pouring down his face, peered round; then he uttered a grunt and pointed behind me. Looking round I saw a small tree growing about a hundred yards away, the only one for miles.

Gasping and panting, we managed to chivvy the anteater to wards it. When we at length arrived at the tree we succeeded in getting another loop of rope round the angry animal's body, and then we proceeded to tie the loose end to the trunk of the tree. Just as we were tying the last knot Francis looked up into the branches and gave a warning yelp.

Looking up I saw, about two feet above my head, a wasp's nest about the size of a football, with the entire colony clinging to the outside and looking extremely irritated, to say the least. The anteater's struggles were making the small tree sway as though struck by a hurricane, and the movement was not appreciated by the wasps. Francis and I backed away, silently and hurriedly.

At our retreat the anteater decided to have a short rest before getting down to the stern work of removing the ropes.

The tree stopped swaying, and the wasps settled down again.

We made our way back to where Bob was holding the horses and unpacked the various items we had brought with us to capture the anteaters: two large sacks, a ball of thick twine, and some lengths of stout cord. Armed with these and a murderous-looking jack-knife belonging to Francis, we again approached the tree. We were just in time to see the anteater shake himself free of the last loop of rope and waddle off across the savannah. I was only too pleased to leave Francis to disentangle his lasso from the wasp-infested tree, while I pursued the quarry on foot, rapidly tying a slip-knot in a piece of cord as I ran. I dashed up alongside the creature and flung my make-shift lasso at his head. I missed. I tried again with the same result. This went on for some time, until he became a trifle tired of my attentions. He suddenly skidded to a standstill, turned, and rose up on his hind legs facing me. I also halted, and examined him warily, particularly the great six-inch claws with which his front feet were armed. He snuffled at me, quivering his long nose, his tiny boot-button eyes daring me to come a step nearer. I walked round him in a circumspect manner, and he revolved also, keeping his claws well to the fore. I made a rather half-hearted attempt to throw the noose over his head, but he greeted this with such a violent waving of his claws, and such enraged snuffling hisses, that I desisted and waited for Francis to bring his lasso. I made a mental note that seeing an animal behind bars in a well regulated zoo is quite a different matter from trying to catch one armed with a short length of cord. In the distance I could see Francis still trying to disentangle his lasso from the tree without bringing the wasps down about his ears.

The anteater sat down on his tail and proceeded solemnly to brush bits of grass off his nose with his large, curved claws. I had noticed that each time he hissed or snuffled a stream of saliva dribbled from his mouth, hanging in long and glutinous strands like thick spider's web. As he galloped across the plain this sticky saliva trailed on the ground and collected bits of grass and twig. Each time he tossed his head in anger these strands of saliva and their debris were napped on to his nose and shoulders, where they stuck like glue. Now he had come to the conclusion that this armistice was an ideal moment for a quick wash and brush up.

Having cleaned his long grey nose to his satisfaction, he then rubbed his shoulders on the grass to free them from the adhesive saliva. Then he rose to his feet, gave an absurdly dog-like shake and plodded off towards the long grass as slowly and calmly as though such things as human beings with lassos had never entered his life. At this moment Francis joined me, out of breath but unstung carrying his rope; we started after the anteater, who was still shuffling along in a slow, nonchalant way. Hearing our approach he sat down again and watched us in a resigned fashion. With two of us to deal with he was at a distinct disadvantage, and while I attracted his attention Francis crept up behind him, threw the noose over his shoulders and pulled it tight round his waist. He was off again in a moment, dashing across the grass and dragging us with him. For half an hour we struggled back and forth across the savannah, but at last we succeeded in getting so many ropes around him that he could not move. Then we thrust him, trussed up and immobile as a Christmas turkey, into the largest sack, and sat down to have a much needed cigarette, feeling rather pleased with ourselves.

But then another snag made itself apparent. All the horses were unanimous in their disapproval when we tried to hoist the sackful of anteater on to their backs. Their alarm was increased by the anteater, who uttered loud and prolonged hisses every time we staggered up to the horses with him. We made several attempts but had to give up, for the horses showed every symptom of indulging in a collective nervous breakdown. After a good deal of thought Francis indicated that the only way out of the difficulty was for me to lead his horse while he followed behind carrying the anteater on his back. I was a bit doubtful whether he would succeed, as the sack was extremely heavy and we were a good eight or nine miles from Karanambo. But I helped him to get the sack on to his back, and we set off. Francis struggled along bravely, the sweat pouring off him, his burden making things as difficult as possible by wiggling violently. The heat of the afternoon sun was intense, and there was no breeze to fan the brow of our anteater-carrier. He started to mutter to himself. Soon he was lagging fifty yards behind. We progressed a tortuous half mile, and Bob turned round to have a look.

"What's the matter with Francis?" he asked in astonishment.

Turning round I saw that our guide had put the anteater down and was walking round and round it, talking to it violently and waving his arms.

"I have a horrible feeling that the world's turning round on him," I said.

"What?"

"That's what he says happens when he has a fit."

"Good God!" said Bob, really startled.

"I hope you know the way back from here?"

"No, I don't. Anyway, hang on to his horse a second, and I'll go back and see what's happening."

I cantered back to where Francis was having his long conversation with the anteater. My arrival did not interrupt him in any way; he did not even look up. From the expression on his face and his wild gesticulation I gathered that he was going into the subject of the anteater's ancestors with all the thoroughness allowed by the Munchi dialect. The object of his abuse was gazing up at him unmoved, blowing a few gentle bubbles from its nose. Presently, having exhausted his vocabulary, Francis stopped talking and looked at me sorrowfully.

"What's the matter, Francis?" I asked soothingly, and rather fatuously, since it was perfectly obvious what was the matter. Francis drew a deep breath and then let forth a torrent of speech at me. I listened carefully, but all I could understand was the oft repeated word draftball which, whatever it was, struck me as having nothing whatsoever to do with the matter in hand. After some considerable time I gathered that what Francis wanted us to do was this: someone was to stay with the anteater while the other two rode to the outstation (a distant speck on the horizon he pointed out to me), in order to procure this very necessary item, a draft ball. Hoping we would find someone at the outstation who had a greater command of English, I agreed to the suggestion and helped him carry the anteater into the shade of some nearby bushes. Then I rode back to explain to Bob.

"You'll have to stay here with the anteater while Francis and I ride back to the outstation for a draft ball I said.

"A draught board?" asked Bob in amazement. "What the devil for?"

"Not a draught board a draftball" I corrected airily.

"And what is a draftball?"

"I haven't the faintest idea. Some form of transport, I imagine."

"Is this your idea, or did Francis think it up?"

"Francis. He seems to think it's the only way."

"Yes, but what is a draftball?"

"My dear chap, I'm no linguist; some form of cart, I think. Anyway, there will be other people at the outstation, and I can enlist their aid."

"By which time I will have died of thirst, or been disembowelled by the anteater," said Bob bitterly. "What a wonderful idea."

"Nonsense, the anteater's perfectly safe in his sack, and I'll bring you a drink from the outstation."

"If you reach the outstation. For all you know, Francis, in his present mental condition, might take you on a four-day jaunt over the Brazilian border. Oh, well, I suppose I shall have to sacrifice myself once again for the sake of your collecting."

As I rode off with Francis, Bob shouted after us: "I would like to point out that I came to Guiana to paint, not play nursemaid to a blasted anteater … and don't forget that drink…"

I prefer not to remember the ride to the outstation. Francis made his horse go like the wind, and mine, obviously under the impression that we were going home for good, followed suit. It seemed as if we rode for ever, but at last I heard dogs barking, and we galloped in at a gate and drew up in front of a long, low white house, in a manner I have rarely seen equalled outside a Western film. I half expected a sign informing me that we had arrived at the Gold Dust Saloon. A delightful old Amerindian appeared and greeted me in Spanish. I grinned stupidly and followed him into the blessed cool and shade of the house. Two wild-looking youths and a handsome girl were seated on the low wall of the room, one of the youths engaged in splitting up a stick of sugar cane and dropping the bits to three naked infants who sprawled on the floor. I seated myself on a low wooden form, and presently the girl brought me a most welcome cup of coffee, and while I drank it the old man conducted a long conversation with me in a mixture of English and very inferior Spanish. Presently Francis reappeared and led me outside to a field, where grazed a large and very obvious bull.

"Draftball," said Francis, pointing.

I went inside and had more coffee while the bull was being saddled, and then, before mounting my horse again, I got the old man to give me a bottle of water for Bob. We said good-bye, mounted our steeds and rode through the gate.

"Where's the draft-bull?" I asked Francis.

He pointed, and I saw the bull cantering heavily over the savannah, and perched on its back was Francis's wife, her long dark hair flowing in the wind, looking from that distance not unlike a brunette Lady Godiva.

By taking a short-cut across the savannah we arrived back at the spot where we had left Bob well in advance of the bull.

We found things in chaos: the anteater had freed both his front legs by some gigantic effort and had then ripped open the sack and crawled half out of it. When we arrived he was dashing round in a circle, wearing the sack on his hindquarters like an ill-fitting pair of pants, with Bob in hot pursuit. After recapturing the beast and pushing it into a new sack, I soothed Bob by producing the bottle of water, and after this lukewarm refreshment he recovered enough to tell me what had happened since we left him. As soon as we were out of sight his horse (which he had thought securely tied to a small bush) had wandered off and refused to be caught for some time. Bob pursued it over the savannah, mouthing endearments, and eventually succeeded in catching it; when he got back he found that the anteater had broken out of the sack and was trying to undo the ropes. Hot and angry. Bob forced him back into the sack, only to find that the horse had wandered off again. This apparently went on for a long time; at one point the monotony was relieved slightly by the arrival of a herd of long-horned cattle that stood around watching Bob's efforts in the supercilious and slightly belligerent way that cattle have. Bob said that he would not have minded their presence so much if bulls had not seemed so predominant in the herd. Eventually they drifted off, and Bob was making yet another sortie after the anteater when we appeared.

"The world," he said, "was just starting to turn round on me when you all arrived."

Just at that moment Francis's wife appeared, galloping across the grass on the bull, and Bob watched her approach with bulging eyes.

"What is that?" he asked in tones of awe. "Can you see it too?"

"That, my dear fellow, is the draftball procured at considerable expense to rescue us."

Bob lay back in the grass and closed his eyes.

"I've seen quite enough of bulls today to last me a lifetime," he said.

"I refuse to help you load the anteater on to that creature. I shall lie here until you have been gored to death, and then I'll ride quietly home."

So Francis, his wife, and I loaded the snorting anteater on to the bull's broad and stoical back. Then we levered our aching bodies on to the horses again and set off on the long trail back to Karanambo. The sun hung for a brief moment over the distant rim of mountains, flooding the savannah with a glorious green twilight, and then it was dark. In the gloom the burrowing owls called softly to one another, and as we passed the lake a pair of white egrets skimmed its surface like shooting stars. We were dead tired and aching in every limb. Our horses stumbled frequently, nearly sending us over their heads. The stars came out, and still we plodded on over the endless grass, not knowing in which direction we were travelling and not caring very much. A pale chip of moon rose, silvering the grass and making the draft ball look huge and misshapen in its light, like some great heavy-breathing prehistoric monster moving across the gloom of a newly formed world. I dozed uncomfortably, jogging back and forth in my saddle. Occasionally Bob's horse would stumble, and I would hear him curse fluently as the jerk stabbed the pommel of the saddle into his long-suffering stomach.

Presently I noticed a pale light flickering through some trees ahead of us, vanishing and reappearing like a will-o'-the wisp. It seemed very small and wan in comparison to the gigantic stars that hung, it appeared, only a few feet above our heads.

"Bob," I called, "I think those are the lights of the jeep."

"Praise the Lord!" said Bob fervently. "If you only knew how I long to get off this saddle!"

The lights of the jeep got brighter, and then we could hear the throb of its engine. It rounded the trees, bathing us in the cold beam of its headlights, and the horses bobbed and bucked, but in a very tired and dispirited manner. We dismounted and hobbled towards the car.

"What luck?" asked McTurk from the gloom.

"We got a big male," I replied, with a certain amount of vanity.

"And we've had a lovely day," said Bob.

McTurk chuckled. We sat down and had a smoke, and presently the prehistoric monster staggered into the glare of the headlights, and we unloaded the anteater from his back. The precious creature was then placed in the jeep on a bed of sacks, and we scrambled in beside him, having turned our horses loose on the savannah to find their way back to the outstation. The anteater awoke suddenly as the jeep started, and began to thrash about. I held his long nose in a firm grip, for I knew if he banged it on the metal sides it would kill him as surely as a bullet would.

"Where are you going to keep him?" asked McTurk.

The thought had not occurred to me before. I realized suddenly that we had no cages and no wood to make them.

Moreover we could not obtain any. But it would have taken more than this sobering thought to destroy my delight in having captured the anteater.

"We'll have to tether him somehow," I said airily.

McTurk grunted.

When we got back to the house we unloaded the beast and unwound the yards of rope and sacking that enveloped him.

Then, with McTurk's aid, we fashioned a rope harness and placed it round his shoulders. To this was attached a long piece of rope which we tethered to a shady tree in the compound. Beyond giving him a drink of water I did nothing for him that night, for I wanted to get him on to a substitute food straight away, and I felt he would be more likely to take to it if he was really hungry.

Getting an animal on to a substitute food is one of the most difficult and worrying jobs a collector has to face. It happens when you obtain a creature like the anteater that has a very restricted diet in the wild state: it might be a certain kind of leaf or fruit, a particular kind of fish or something equally tricky. Only very rarely can this diet be supplied when the animal reaches England , and so the collector's job is to teach his specimen to eat something else, something that can be supplied by the zoo to which the animal is going. So you have to concoct a palatable substitute food which the creature will eat, enjoy and thrive on. With some beasts it is a very difficult job, this changing over of diets, for you stand the risk of the substitute disagreeing with the creature and making it ill.

If this happens you may lose it. Some beasts are very stubborn and go on refusing the substitute until in despair you are forced to let them go. Others, again, fall on the substitute the first time it is offered and feed off it greedily. Sometimes you get this contradictory attitude in two members of the same species.

The substitute for the anteater consisted of three pints of milk with two raw eggs and a pound or so of raw, finely minced beef mixed with it, the whole thing being topped off with three drops of cod liver oil. I prepared this mixture early the next morning, and when it was ready I broke open the nearest termites' nest and scattered a thick layer of these creatures on the surface of the milk. Then I carried the bowl out to the anteater.

He was lying curled up on his side under the tree, completely covered by his tail, which was spread over him like an enormous ostrich feather. It hid his body and nose from view, and from a distance it made him look more like a pile of grey grass than an anteater. When you see these animals in the zoo you never realize how useful their great tails are: on the open savannah, curled up between two tussocks of grass, his tail spread over him like an umbrella, he is sheltered from all but the very worst weather. When he heard me approaching he snorted in alarm, whipped back his tail and rose on to his hind legs, ready to do battle. I put the bowl down in front of him, offered up a brief prayer that he would not be difficult, and retreated to watch. He shambled over to it and sniffed loudly round the rim. Then he plunged the tip of his nose into the milk, and his long, grey, snakelike tongue started whipping in and out of the mixture. He did not pause once until he had emptied the bowl, and I stood and watched him with incredulous delight.

Anteaters belong to a group of animals that do not possess teeth; instead they are furnished with a long tongue and sticky saliva with which to pick up their food, a tongue that acts on the principle of a flypaper. So each time the anteater whipped his tongue back into his mouth it carried with it a certain amount of egg, milk, and chopped meat.

Even by this laborious method it did not take him long to clean up the mixture, and when he had finished he sniffed around the bowl for some time, to make sure he had not overlooked any. Then he went and lay down, curled himself up, spread his tail over himself like a tent and sank into a contented sleep. From that moment on he was little or no trouble to look after.

Some weeks later, when we were back in Georgetown , we got a mate for Amos, as we called him. A pair of slim, well dressed East Indians arrived one morning in a sleek new car and asked us if we wanted a barim (the local name for the giant anteater). When we replied that we certainly did, they calmly opened the boot of the car, and inside, tied up with masses of rope, was a full-grown female anteater. As a conjuring trick it was considerably more impressive than producing a rabbit out of a hat. However, the creature was very exhausted and had several nasty cuts on her body and legs; we were a bit doubtful whether she would survive. But after some first aid to her wounds, and a long drink she revived enough to attack us all in a very determined manner, and so we thought she was well enough to be introduced to Amos.

Amos was living in a spacious, fenced-in pen under the trees. When we opened the door of his pen and introduced the pointed end of his bride-to-be he greeted her with such an ungentlemanly display of hissings, snuff lings and waving of claws that we hastily removed her to safety. Then we divided Amos's pen with a row of stakes and put his wife next door to him. They could see and smell each other through this division, and we hoped that constant sniffing would bring about a more tender feeling on the part of Amos.

The first day the female worried us by refusing the substitute food completely. She would not even sample it.

The next day I had an idea, and I pushed Amos's feeding bowl right up against the dividing fence at breakfast time. As soon as the female saw (and heard) him eating his meal she went across to investigate. Obviously Amos was enjoying whatever it was, so she poked her long tongue through the bars and into his bowl. Within ten minutes they had finished the food between them. So, every day, we were treated to the touching sight of Amos and his wife, separated by bars, feeding lovingly out of the same bowl. Eventually she learnt to eat out of her own dish, but she always preferred to feed with Amos if she could.

When I landed Amos and his wife at Liverpool , and saw them driven off to the zoo they were destined for, I felt considerable pride at having landed them safely, for anteaters are not the easiest of creatures to keep in captivity.