Last Chance to See - Douglas Adams [61]
This seemed to clear the air a little. Our hosts quickly realised that the only way of stopping us talking the whole time was to do some talking themselves. The penguin, Phred explained, was traditional. Every February 28th they hung a dead penguin on a tree. It was a tradition that had only started today and they doubted if they would keep it up, but in the meantime at least it kept the flies off the penguin.
This seemed a thoroughly excellent explanation. We all celebrated it with another glass of beer, and things began at last to move along with a bit more of a swing. In an altogether easier atmosphere, we set out into the forest with Arab and Boss to see if we could at last find one of these birds we had traveled twelve thousand miles to see.
The forest was rotten. That is to say that it was so wet that every fallen tree trunk we had to clamber over cracked open under our feet, branches we clung on to when we lost our footing came away in our hands. We slipped and slithered noisily through the mud and sodden undergrowth, while Arab stalked easily ahead of us, just visible through the trees in his blue-plaid woollen parka. Boss described a chaotic orbit around him, hardly ever visible at all except as an occasional moving flash of blackness through the undergrowth.
He was, however, always audible. Arab had fastened a small bell onto his collar, which rang out clearly through the clean, damp air, as if an invisible and deranged carol singer were cavorting through the forest. The purpose of the bell was to allow Arab to keep track of where Boss was, and also to let him know what the dog was up to. A flurry of agitated rings followed by silence might indicate that Boss had found a kakapo and was standing guard over it. Every time the bell fell silent, we held our breaths, but each time the clanging started up again as Boss found a new avenue in the undergrowth to plunge through. From time to time the bell would suddenly start to ring out more loudly and clearly, and Arab would summon Boss back to him with a quick shout. There would then be a slight pause, which on one occasion enabled Mark and Gaynor and me to catch up with them.
We came tumbling breathless and wet out of the forest to a small clearing, where we found Arab squatting beside Boss, stuffing a small wad of mossy earth up into the cavity of the bell to dampen its sound a little. He squinted up at us with his slow, shy grin and explained that the bell mustn’t be too loud or it would only frighten the kakapo away—if there were any in the area.
Did he think there were any around? asked Mark.
“Oh, they’re certainly around,” said Arab, pulling his fingers through his streaming wet beard to clean the mud off them, “or at least they’ve been around here today. There’s plenty of scent. Boss keeps on finding scent all right, but the scent goes cold. There’s been quite a lot of kakapo activity here recently, but not quite recently enough. He’s very excited, though. He knows they’re definitely around.”
He made a fuss of Boss for a few moments, and then explained that there were major problems in training dogs to find kakapos because of the terrible shortage of kakapos to train them on. In the end, he said, it was more realistic to train the dogs not to track anything else. Training was simply a long and tedious process of elimination, which was very frustrating for the dog.
With one last pat, he let go of Boss again, who bounded back off into the bush to carry on snuffling and rummaging for any trace of the one bird he hadn’t been trained not to track. Within a few moments he had disappeared from sight, and his muted bell went clanking off into