Nevertheless, we had to live with the reality of snakes around us, in the yard, in the grass, in the trees. John and I, who walked to school up a narrow path up to the top of the hill, learned to walk slowly, stomping our feet, giving all creatures time to escape. We soon knew that puff adders were more dangerous than other snakes, because they were slower than cobras and needed more time to get away. They would attack if escape seemed impossible.
The idea of meeting a spitting cobra was terrifying, too, since, although such snakes could kill with a venomous bite, they often blinded their prey by spitting as much as ten feet straight into the eyes of the foe. We saw this in action several years later, when we visited the Snake Park, in Salisbury. There, each spitting cobra was kept in a large glass aquarium. If I stopped and peered too closely through the glass, then the cobra would rear up and aim a jet of spit at me. We would see it splattered over the inside of the glass surface, in a very small area, precisely at the level of my eyes. It was both frightening and mesmerizing to see the accuracy of the aim.
A visit to the Snake Park was always interesting, though I knew up front that I would never want to work in such a place. The wardens, wearing hiking boots, khaki uniforms and bush hats, strolled around a large rectangular, concrete-walled pit. Leafy vegetation, grasses and trees provided a natural habitat for the snakes, which were left to roam wherever they liked. Visitors like us would look on safely from an open veranda above the pit. We watched as a warden would demonstrate how to remove venom, for instance, from a snake’s fangs. By approaching stealthily from behind, he would suddenly place his forefinger firmly on top of the snake’s head, but immediately position his thumb and third finger on either side of the head. This not only pinned down the snake, but it also opened its mouth to reveal its fangs. Then, using his other hand, the warden would hold a glass jar beneath the fangs, and we would watch as the milky white venom ran down the inside of the jar. It was quite disturbing to see how quickly this all happened.
I remember that my father once killed a snake in our back garden, clubbing it to death with a garden hoe or some such implement. He wanted to take a photo of it being held up by us children. I would not touch it, even though I knew it was dead. Eventually, I was persuaded to use a handkerchief to hold the corpse, demonstrating that it was almost as long as I was tall. I hated it, as the grimace on my face in that photo still shows.
Such was life in the bush. Wild animals, insects, reptiles, harmless or not, do not appeal to me.
My husband was right. No, I wouldn’t want to read his book!
Rachel3 years ago
Hi grandma I like it 😊