Snakemaster Read online

  Copyright © 2014, 2019 by Austin Stevens

  First paperback edition 2019

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Stevens, Austin James, author.

  Snakemaster : wildlife adventures with the world’s most dangerous reptiles / Austin Stevens.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-1-62873-710-3 (hardback)

  1. Stevens, Austin James. 2. Herpetologists--South Africa--Biography. 3. Poisonous snakes--Anecdotes. I. Title.

  QL31.S748A3 2014

  597.9092--dc23

  [B]

  2014002140

  Cover design by Qualcom

  Cover photo courtesy of the author

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-5107-4239-0

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-4240-6

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Amy

  MEASUREMENT CONVERSIONS:

  1 kilometer = .609344 miles

  1 meter = 3.28084 feet

  1 kilogram = 2.20462 pounds

  CONTENTS

  Author’s Note

  Introduction

  Chapter 1 Early Days in the Snake and Animal Park

  Chapter 2 A Bit of Background and the Hartebeespoort Dam Snake and Animal Park

  Chapter 3 The Gaboon Viper

  Chapter 4 A World-Record Snake Sit-In

  Chapter 5 A Cobra in the Bathroom and a Black Mamba in the Car

  Chapter 6 On Location with Julie and Slimy

  Chapter 7 The Drainpipe Python Rescue and Shotgun Man

  Chapter 8 The Helmstadt Snake Removal

  Chapter 9 Sultan the Croc and Other Stories

  Chapter 10 The Asian Cobra Incident

  Chapter 11 Filming in Africa

  Chapter 12 The Making of Snakemaster

  Chapter 13 The Giant Reticulated Python of Borneo

  Chapter 14 The Komodo Dragon Accident

  Chapter 15 Snake Venoms and the Fer-de-Lance

  Chapter 16 DCI Promotions

  Chapter 17 Snakes on the Late Show

  Chapter 18 Foreign Toads and Pythons

  Chapter 19 Grizzly Bears in British Columbia

  Conclusion

  Acknowledgments

  Photo Credits

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This book discloses a part of my life story, lived somewhat randomly and wild, originating from a time before general and scientific information became available to everyone at the click of a mouse. This book is not intended to be an in-depth exploration into the many-faceted science that is herpetology today, but rather a trip across time, offering you, the reader, the opportunity to re-live with me a bygone era of adventures and experiences.

  INTRODUCTION

  It is generally accepted that one must make allowances for the inexperience of youth. One can of course only appreciate this when one is older, and try as you may to influence those younger or less experienced than yourself, inevitably they, too, must experience life as their youthful minds and enthusiasm dictate. (I, myself, am a typical example.) Thus, considering what knowledge one has gained over—let’s say forty or fifty years of life—and knowing with some certainty that we cannot wholly transfer this knowledge to our children (or other youthful acquaintances) but that they must indeed experience life for themselves before attaining full gratification, however disastrous or otherwise the results might be, one might once more be compelled to contemplate the time honored question: What is life?

  While the whole answer to this question is certainly not a simple one, it is certain that one cannot be what one is not, and one must forge along the path of life as best as possible and, with luck, live to be old and wise, for whatever it may be worth. Unfortunately, society as we know it today, amongst other factors, influences the path of life; sometimes even forcing it in one particular direction . . . good or bad. But here precisely is where what one is truly made of will surface, where the genetic makeup of the person will emerge in that form we simply consider as “character.” And though over the years one’s surface character may mold, adapt, or even change, that which lies deep inside is forever.

  I have always believed that no matter how one attempts to improve his- or herself, one can never be what one is not. The outside influences inflicted on a person by everyday life are to a large extent superficial and will serve only as an option. However, the genetic makeup of each individual is installed at the very beginning of life, never to be changed. This is, after all, what makes each one of us forever unique. However much one would like to emulate the enviable traits of another, one can never truly be what one is not!

  Though I do not consider myself particularly endowed with an overabundance of enviable traits, there has always been one favorable aspect to my character, a factor that has served me well through the numerous traumatic events of my life. I am possessed by the most powerful will to live . . . forever, if it were possible. And not for one second have I ever considered the possibility of my own demise, not even in the face of sometimes overwhelming odds. This, I must stress, is not courage. This is simply how I am constructed.

  When I was a young boy, I was convinced that physical pain should be endured as far as possible without artificial relief. My theory behind this being that, by so doing, the body and mind would be toughened, and therefore each time be better trained to cope. However, after experiencing a number of broken bones, sprains, and other schoolboy injuries, it became apparent to me that there were limits, though I still tried to maintain a “tough” standard. Later it was explained to me by a doctor that I had, in fact, the “wrong end of the stick.” By introducing artificial relief (painkillers), the body and mind are better able to tackle the healing process, without the added disruption incurred by the presence of pain.

  Delirium is described as a disordered state of mind, with incoherent speech, hallucinations, and occasional mad ravings. At one point in my young life, I found myself to have all of this, and more. And though I was not at all in full comprehension of my state, my brain registered with some clarity that this was a time to endure . . . or die.

  For the eight days that it took for the cytotoxic properties of the venom of a puff adder to fully distribute its devastating effects along the length of my arm, I surfaced consciously only between morphine doses, when the terrible pain forced me from the delirious blackness to the living hell of reality. Cytotoxins destroy tissue and blood cell walls, promoting hemorrhaging and necrosis, which if untreated will eventually lead to gangrene poisoning and death. To place one’s arm into a fire, without the option of removing it, would roughly describe the painful effects of this tissue-destroying venom, while the resultant swelling, blistering, and exuding of plasmalike fluid from the bitten limb is frightening to witness. The serum created for snake bites is mostly unable to neutralize the cytotoxic properties of puff adder venom, though it is effective against other life-threatening agents.

  In my painful state of
delirium, I did of course have little comprehension of time and little recollection of actual happenings, other than those briefly taking place between six hourly morphine medications. Usually the burning pain would be returning to its full intensity long before the final hour, rendering me suddenly awake and crying for my arm to be removed from the fire. I remember once desperately searching—if not physically, then in my tormented mind—for my rifle, almost panic-stricken by its absence. I had been trained never to be without my rifle. Where was my rifle?! I must have screamed, for the next moment there was someone at my side, and a prick in my arm sent me back to a restless yet pain-free oblivion.

  On another such occasion, as the pain once more seemed to be enveloping my whole being, my very fiber of existence, I was aware of people about me, probing me, examining me. A voice pierced my delirium, as though from the mouth of a megaphone, loud and concentrated in my head: “Amputate the hand, or he will die.”

  And, as though jabbed with a dose of adrenaline (which may very well have been the case by natural reaction of the body), I sat straight up in the bed and screamed “No! Please no!” before a prick in my arm once more rendered me quivering back to the darkness that is chemically induced sleep.

  However, my brain now fought the sleep, desperately, pathetically, with the little control it still had. For whatever the developing scenario in my subconscious, I knew I could not accept amputation any more than I was prepared to accept death. Not under any circumstances. It simply could not be! And I believed this totally, as such is my design. And in spite of my heavily drugged condition, I continued to mutter my objections, deliriously adamant of my nonacceptance of the diagnosis made and the treatment prescribed.

  Fear of losing my hand now rendered my pain irrelevant by comparison, and I fought desperately with the nurses as they attempted to administer my regular dose of morphine. Now I did not want to sleep! In my sick delirium I even welcomed the pain. It meant that my hand was still a part of me. No matter the circumstances, I was not going to lose my hand. And I had no intention of dying either. So there! And it took many people—nurses, sisters, and doctors alike—to hold me down before the needle was once more inserted into a vein and I was delivered furiously into the world of the unconscious.

  Days passed, but for the most part I was oblivious to them. Then suddenly my eyes opened wide and staring . . . and there was no pain. No pain! The joy of it soared through my still fuzzy brain. The pain was g. . . . Sudden fear cut short my thoughts, constricting my breath, as though my chest were in a vice. Dear God, no! I almost screamed as I turned my head to focus on my heavily bandaged arm strapped to a splint along the side of the bed. Please God no! I almost tore the splint loose in an attempt to focus on the extremity of my arm. At this point a nurse rushed in, alerted by my screams of distress. Quick to understand, she grabbed me firmly by the shoulders, not so much to restrict my panic but to get my attention—to look into her eyes. And when I did, she said. “It’s okay, your arm is whole. It’s all there.” And the dark blue eyes looking into mine told me that she was not lying. “Rest now,” she continued, “The worst is over. But there is still a long road ahead for you.” With that she settled me comfortably back in the bed, with my head raised slightly on the pillow, and left the room. And for the first time in ten days I slept a true, uninduced and painless sleep. Christmas had passed, and I didn’t even know it.

  I was just nineteen years of age.

  Another day later I saw my arm unbandaged for the first time, and the shock of it took my breath away. Swollen to twice its normal size, the upper regions were tinged purple, whilst below the elbow the flesh was black and hard, with a number of large, swollen, blood-filled blisters scattered across the top of my hand. One such blister, larger than the others, surrounded the bitten finger at the sight of the fang puncture, from where a greenish brown fluid oozed repulsively. It was a terrible sight, and in my drastically weakened state, dizziness overwhelmed me. I had to lie back on the bed, as it seemed that I would faint.

  My entire arm was painful to the touch, as were other areas of my body, especially in the armpits and groin, where my lymph glands were considerably swollen. However, except for the actual bitten finger, the doctors now seemed reasonably confident that, with the help of specific antibiotics, the arm would eventually slough the dead tissue and regenerate itself anew. The finger itself, however, having been exposed to the worst of the cytotoxic effects of the venom, remained another matter. Solemnly I was warned not to get my hopes up, as full recovery of the finger was not likely, with amputation highly probable. It would still be a few more days before the medical staff knew for certain.

  Grateful as I was in knowing that my hand and arm would be spared from amputation, deep depression set in as I considered the possibility of life without my right index finger. How would I point? How would I hold my rifle and pull the trigger? For that matter, how would I scratch my buttocks or pick my nose? Good grief! Endless combinations of things I would not ever be able to do again loomed menacingly out of proportion in my traumatized mind. Life as I had known it would never be the same again. Plunging my face into the pillow, I howled my frustration and fear into its comforting softness.

  So how did I end up contemplating losing my finger to a puff adder’s bite? When South Africans leave school, they normally were obligated to take military training in conventional warfare and antiterrorism. Getting oneself bitten by a highly venomous puff adder was not part of the usual military training program, as described by the South African Defense Force manual of operations at the time. This was entirely my own doing, brought about by my somewhat overzealous enthusiasm for reptiles. We came upon this species often while on bush patrol along the border dividing South West Africa from Angola, where at the time the South African Defense Force saw fit to deploy its youthful recruits in defense against hostile insurgence from the north. Snakes were often spotted, both venomous and nonvenomous species, and I had taken it upon myself to somewhat improve my platoon’s knowledge of the subject by catching and displaying these interesting reptiles on every possible occasion. Thus I soon became known as the “Snakeman,” and when one night a highly venomous puff adder was found to have positioned itself amongst the sandbags of a guard post, it was natural that the “Snakeman” be called to remove it.

  And indeed this I did, with somewhat unexpected results, as the snake, angered by my handling, managed to slip one long fang down past its bottom lip, just piercing my index finger deeply enough to inject a few drops of the terrible cytotoxic venom. The drama and trauma that followed became a nightmare blur of pain, distress, and near mayhem as the insufficiently experienced military medics on base strived to administer treatment as best they could, unfortunately much of it incorrectly. (At the time, the matter of snake bite poisoning and the treatment thereof remained somewhat ambiguous.)

  This was followed by a two-hundred-kilometer, high-speed dash through enemy bush territory in an open-top army Land Rover and on into the Caprivi Strip panhandle section of northeastern Namibia (then South West Africa). There a military aircraft was on standby to file an emergency flight plan for Windhoek, hundreds of kilometers to the south. After twenty-four hours of mental and physical trauma, discomfort, and agony, they finally delivered me in a state of semiconsciousness to the Windhoek Hospital, with a progressively deteriorating right arm that felt like it was on fire.

  It was now some two weeks later. Two weeks of my life lost to delirium, pain, and shock as my entire physical and mental prowess was dedicated to the fight to keep me alive. The remaining question now: Would I lose my finger?

  It is amazing how easily one takes so many things for granted until threatened with the loss of them. First came the battle just to survive the episode. The thought that if only my life could be saved, all else thereafter would be a bonus . . . just to get through it and be alive! This somehow miraculously achieved, the next desperate fight suddenly materializes: the fight to save the hand. Oh, if only my hand would be sav
ed, nothing else would ever matter. And you struggle and fight and demand and even beg to the God you are not sure exists that, should your hand be saved, then all else in your life, for evermore, would be fine. And the doctors fret and strive and apply all their skills and medicinal knowledge until finally, it is done, and your hand is out of danger. Oh, thank you Lord, doctors, nurses . . . thank you all.

  But now, suddenly, there is a new priority, an all-encompassing and overpowering priority: the original bitten and now mutilated finger, the original source of all the dilemma. And you know you should be thankful for your life, and for your hand, which is now out of danger, but suddenly all that has gone before is overruled. Oh, if just this one little, now all-important, finger could be saved, there would never again be anything to fear from life. This index finger . . . this all-important finger, seemed now somehow to overrule even that which was so important before. If only my finger could be saved, then all else in my life would be gravy. Nothing but gravy! The entire battle was now reduced to just that one little digit—that one little digit that now seemed as important as the whole hand did before, as saving the whole of my life did in the first place.

  Human nature is indeed fickle . . . and we so soon forget.

  It took another three weeks of further treatment and waiting before the doctors finally concluded that my finger, though looking somewhat disfigured and emaciated from the tissue damage, would remain as part of my hand. I received the good news with a tremendous sigh of relief, thanking the doctors and all medical staff involved for all their efforts on my behalf, and lay back into my cushions, both mentally and physically exhausted. It had been a long, hard, and frantic haul. I had lost weight and seemed to be weak all over from the effects of my ordeal and from being bedridden. Carefully I examined my finger and compared it to that of the opposite hand. It still looked terrible, with a hard, dry scab firmly attached around the original fang puncture. This, I had been assured, would drop off in time. I tried to flex the finger, which was painful, but the very fact that it was painful meant life was returning and all would be healed in time. I took another great sigh of relief, remembering the words so often repeated by my mother, who in her lifetime suffered much pain: “This too shall pass.”