As we walked around the wonderful grounds admiring the birds and mammals, Jean gave me a lot of good advice about my scheme, and coming from a man with his vast experience his advice was invaluable. Presently we went down to the edge of the sweeping, velvet lawn where on the edge of the lake tea had been laid. We sat there, listening to the happy songs of the gibbons on their island in the lake and watched solemn troops of flamingoes, pink as cyclamen buds, crossing the green lawns, accompanied by pheasants and shining jungle-fowl, peacocks negligently trailing their jewel-encrusted tails. Presently, I decided to get France’s greatest ornithologist’s views on the conservation scene.
‘Tell me, Jean,’ I said, ‘you’ve been a conservationist now for over sixty years . . .’
‘Yes,’ he agreed. He was a massive man, with a huge head, not unlike that of Winston Churchill, and with an accent which Maurice Chevalier would have envied.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘what are your views? Do you think there is any hope?’
He brooded for a moment, hands clasped over the end of his walking stick, his chin on his hands.
‘Yes,’ he said at last, ‘there is hope.’
I was delighted at so unpessimistic a view from such an eminent source.
‘If we take up cannibalism,’ he added.
I then went to see Sir Peter Scott who was, as always, enthusiastic and helpful. Almost alone among the top ranks of conservationists, Peter believed in captive breeding and it was one of his reasons for setting up his now world-famous Wildfowl and Wetlands Trust. He was most encouraging and constructive about my plans and gave me lots of valuable advice, pointing out pitfalls he had encountered. As he talked he was busy finishing off a large canvas, a painting of sunrise over a marsh with a skein of geese coming in to land. As his brush moved and pecked away at the canvas the painting grew miraculously out of his apparently random daubs, and I remembered a story that had been told to me by a friend who was a painter of pedigree race and shire horses. She had gone to Peter for advice on her first show and he received her affably in his studio, wearing a polychromatic silk dressing gown. As he talked he continued work on the picture he was painting, a flock of ducks coming in to land on a marsh in a sunset. He was in the middle of giving her shrewd and excellent advice when the telephone rang.
‘Damn,’ said Peter, staring moodily at his canvas. Then he brightened.
‘Here,’ he said, turning to my friend, ‘you’re a painter – just fill in all these ducks’ beaks with yellow, will you, while I answer the phone.’
Fortunately, Peter did not require such artistic skills from me in return for his help.
I really did not feel my scheme would have the Good Housekeeping seal of approval, as it were, unless I had outlined it to that doyen of the biological scene, Sir Julian Huxley, and received his approbation. He had always been kind and helpful in the past, but this was a somewhat grandiose idea and I was fearful that he would treat it in some damning way. I need not have worried, for he greeted it with the infectious enthusiasm he showed for every new idea, great or small. I relaxed and we had a delightful tea, with talk ranging from the monkey-puzzle forest in Chile to the skin of the giant sloth found in Patagonian caves, from the feeding habits of narwhals to the strange tooth adaptation of a lizard I had captured in Guyana, an adaptation which enabled it to catch, crush and masticate the most enormous snails with great ease. I had sent him a series of photographs depicting the whole process and he had been fascinated.
‘Talking of photography, Durrell,’ he said at the end of tea, ‘have you seen that film young Attenborough brought back from Africa on that lioness . . . you know, Elsa? It was reared by that Adamson woman.’
‘No sir’ I said, ‘unfortunately, I missed it.’
He glanced at his watch. ‘They’re repeating it this afternoon,’ he said, ‘so we’ll catch it, eh?’
So the greatest living English biologist and I perched on upright chairs in front of the television and Huxley switched the set on. In silence we watched Joy Adamson chasing Elsa, Elsa chasing Joy Adamson, Joy Adamson lying on top of Elsa, Elsa on top of Joy Adamson, Elsa in bed with Joy Adamson, Joy Adamson in bed with Elsa, and so on, interminably. At last the show ended and Huxley leant forward and switched off the set. He mused for a moment. I was silent.
‘D’you know what, Durrell?’ he asked suddenly.
I wondered what penetrating and lucid commentary on animal behaviour the greatest living English biologist was going to vouchsafe to me. ‘What, sir?’ I asked, and waited breathlessly for his answer.
‘It’s the only case of lesbianism I have ever seen between a human being and a lioness,’ he said, quite seriously.
After that, I felt that any further conversation would be an anti-climax, so I left.
On 14 March 1959, the Jersey Zoological Park came into being. The first animal inhabitants were an assortment of beasts I had brought back from West Africa and stashed away in my sister’s back garden in Bournemouth (that most salubrious of seaside resorts) against the day when they would become founding members of the zoo. They were shipped to Jersey and my sister’s neighbours heaved a collective sigh of relief.
Of course, for several months before the animals arrived, Les Augres Manor was a scene of frenzied activity. Carpenters and masons rushing about laying cement, making cages out of everything they could get their hands on. Cages on legs we called them, made out of untreated wood, chain link and chicken wire. Packing crates were wonderfully converted into shelters and every available piece of iron piping or wrought iron from the local junk yard was grist to our mill. We transformed the things people discarded as being of no further use into animal havens and shelters: cages ungainly and ugly but serviceable sprouted everywhere.
Our setting was, of course, idyllic. The beautiful manor house – the oldest fortified manor in Jersey – sat complacently within its granite archways on the edge of a gentle valley, through which meandered a tiny stream, which eventually fed a small lake, tree enshrouded. The whole manor was cosseted on all sides by minute fields, each guarded by a hedgerow of trees and bushes, ancient oaks and chestnuts. When – as is reputed – Bonnie Prince Charlie in his bid for the English throne came to take tea on the lawn in front of the manor, most of these magnificent trees must have been mere saplings. One could easily see how, with careful love, attention, pruning and planting, this property could be converted into a park like a ring of greenery with the manor house as the jewel in the setting.
The first big snag soon appeared. It is all very well to borrow £25,000 but this had to be paid back. This meant going on another expedition as soon as possible to get material for another book. So, with the utmost reluctance, I engaged a manager, a friend of some years standing whom I thought I could entrust with the task. This was a mistake. I returned to find that my written instructions and plans had been ignored and the money frittered away. Our ship (our potential Ark, if you like) was an exceedingly frail one and now the hideous shoals and reefs of bankruptcy loomed ahead. It looked as though my plan to create a place to help save animals from extinction was liable to become extinct before it could do any good work. I sacked my manager and took over myself.
The next couple of years were, to say the least, nerveracking. Each morning when I awoke I wondered if that was the day my credit was going to run out and my dreams evaporate like dew. The staff were wonderful. Though working on a pittance, they were apprised of the gravity of the situation and all agreed to stay on. This was a great morale booster and gave me the courage (not unaided by tranquillizers) to go out and seduce bank managers into agreeing overdrafts and fruit and vegetable merchants into waiting patiently for their money. Gradually, very slowly, we began to swim instead of sink.
In those early years there were many bizarre happenings and even my mother was subjected to the sort of episode, which can occur only if you are unwise enough to live in a z
oo. Our two half-grown chimpanzees Chumley and Lulu had discovered, after much research, that interlink wire – if you could find a free end – could be unraveled like an old Fair Isle sweater and almost as quickly. This they proceeded to do to the wire on their cage one afternoon when no one was around. My mother, having just settled herself with a pot of tea in front of the television, heard a peremptory bang on the front door. Puzzled, she went to open it and found Chumley and Lulu on the front stairs. It was obvious from their demeanour that they had come to call, were delighted to find her at home and were in no doubt that she would greet them with the same enthusiasm with which they were greeting her. My mother measured four feet eight inches high and the chimps came up to her waist. Not one to lose her head in a crisis, nothing daunted, she invited the apes in as she would honoured guests, sat them down on a sofa and opened a large box of chocolates and a tin of biscuits. While the chimps were raucously feeding on this manna from heaven, my mother quietly phoned downstairs and reported the whereabouts of the truants. The fact that the apes could have seriously injured her did not occur to her and when I remonstrated with her for letting them into the flat she was puzzled.
‘But dear,’ she said plaintively, ‘they came to tea,’ and she added thoughtfully, ‘and they had jolly sight better manners than some of the people you’ve had up here.’
At one time in the early days we owned an enormous and very beautiful reticulated python called Pythagoras. Fully twelve feet long and as thick as a rugger blue’s thigh, Pythagoras was a force to be reckoned with. He occupied a cage in the then Reptile House, which had been badly designed and which he was rapidly outgrowing. The cage had not been designed by me, I hasten to add, but by the manager I had put in charge in my absence. The front consisted of two large sheets of plate glass which slid over each other, making it extremely difficult to clean if the cage contained a potentially lethal creature like Pythagoras, unless you removed him first. This was a three-man job, two to restrain Pythagoras (who strongly objected) and bundle him into a giant clothes basket, while the third man cleaned out. Though the python was fairly placid as a rule, he strongly disliked being manhandled, and so it was forbidden that any member of staff should try this procedure alone. John Hartley, straight from school, a handsome lad built on the lines of a giraffe, had been with us a year and showed such enthusiasm for the work that we put him in charge of reptiles. One evening his enthusiasm got the better of him. Passing the Reptile House at dusk after the zoo had closed, I heard muffled shouts for help emanating from inside. Investigating, I found John had done the unforgivable. He had tried to clean out Pythagoras alone. The great snake had thrown its coils around him and bound him as immobile as if in a straitjacket. Fortunately, John still had hold of his head, and Pythagoras was hissing like a giant kettle.
This was no time for recriminations. I seized the reptile’s tail and begin to unwind him. The problem was that as fast as 1 unwound him from John he threw his coils around me. Soon we were both as inextricably linked as Siamese twins, and we both started to yell for help. It was after hours and I feared that the staff would have gone home. The idea of standing there all night until someone found us in the morning was not a happy one. Fortunately, our cacophonous cries were heard by a member of the mammal staff and with his help Pythagoras was restored to his rightful home. I was, as may be imagined, extremely terse with John. However, being linked together by a python seems to form some sort of bond, for John is now my Personal Assistant.
For the most part we didn’t and still don’t consider these sorts of episodes as interruptions to our lives, because they are part and parcel of our lives and work. It is only when we take friends, or acquaintances around the collection that it is brought home to us that, to the average person, we must lead a very bizarre existence and yet – in spite of thinking us eccentric in the extreme – they are impressed. Today they see our glittering array of reptiles, snakes moving with infinitely more grace than a Balinese dancing girl, tortoises lumbering about like huge animated walnuts. We show them our wonderful group of chocolate-brown gorillas, growling like bears, the leader Jambo like a Sumo wrestler in fur, but much more handsome and gentle as a kitten. Then our shaggy Buddhistic Orangutans with their oriental eyes and fur like a hundred tangled pony tails in blond, orange and red. They marvel at our tapestry of birds, cranes as slim and elegant as spears, pheasants wearing plumage of multi-coloured shot silk, flamingoes moving slowly across the green sward like blown rose petals. They fall in love with our tamarins and marmosets, smallest of the monkeys, clad in brown, orange or black fur or a pelt that glistens like pure gold, tiny fragile animals moving like quicksilver through the branches, delicate as birds and trilling and whistling like them. Then in the woods along our lake the lemurs, parti-coloured as dominoes, roaring in chorus so the ground vibrates beneath your feet. Then the babirusa, surely the most beautiful ugly animal in the world, with its great curved tusks and almost hairless body covered with as many folds and wrinkles, nooks and crannies, as a relief map of the moon. The cheetahs, sitting bolt upright in a picture frame of tall grass, the black tear stains on their faces, tear stains – so it is said – because after being created they became haughty and unkind to other animals and so were admonished by God and cried black tears which stained their faces as a reminder of His wrath.
Our friends see all these: animals they know about, others they had never known existed, and they ask how and why we set all this up. We answer that we have over a thousand animals in the collection and ninety per cent of what we have shown them are creatures threatened with extinction and that they come from all over the world. They are threatened primarily by man’s activities, and their plight shows what we are doing to the planet. Our raison d’être is to provide sanctuary for these creatures, and this is the reason I wanted my own zoo.
Even during the worrisome early years, I decided that we must press ahead with plans for turning the zoo into what it had been created for: a scientific, charitable Trust. However, before the Trust could be created and take over the zoo and run it as the headquarters, there was the zoo debt to consider. Although our gate money was climbing steadily, there was still the wretched £25,000 constantly on the horizon like a black cloud. It was patently obvious that you could not start a Trust in debt for this amount. There was nothing for it if we were to proceed and proceed swiftly: my books were doing well and I took over personally the repayment of the loan so that the Jersey Wildlife Preservation Trust could be born unencumbered by debt.
It was a great day in 1963 when we assembled in the dark depths of the impressive Royal Court in St Helier to hear ourselves incorporated and thus made legal. Lawyers, like black crows in their gowns, flitted through the gloom, their wigs white as mushroom caps in the shade of the forest; they all chatted together in hushed voices, talking that strange lawyers’ language which sounds as incomprehensible as Chaucerian English, and when written down is as mysterious as the Dead Sea Scrolls, and sometimes almost as archaic. So finally we emerged blinking into the spring sunlight and went to the nearest hostelry to celebrate the fact that the Jersey Wildlife Preservation Trust was no longer a dream but a reality.
We had certain vital things to do if the Trust were to prosper. We needed a membership; the lifeblood of any organization, and the acquiring of one can be a slow process. In our case, fortunately, the process was accelerated because ever since I had started writing I had kept every letter of appreciation I had ever received. These kind people were now approached and I am delighted to say that a great number of them agreed to join as founder members. (From then on our membership grew until it has reached, at the time of writing, twenty thousand, spread all over the world.)
One of our first tasks after the Trust came into being was a dismal one. Among the animals in the collection was a great number of species, which were not endangered in the wild state; animals I had collected when I worked for other zoos, or animals which had been ‘wished’ on us. Th
ey were taking up valuable space and costing money to maintain, when both space and money could be put to better use. So it was essential that these commoner animals were weeded out of the collection and found alternative homes. To dispose of animals, many of which you had hand-reared, many personal friends of long standing, was an unpleasant task but necessary if the Trust were to accomplish what it had been set up to achieve. An additional difficulty was, of course, the paucity of good zoos to which I would dream of sending animals. In the British Isles they could be – with great difficulty and without in any way running out of digits – counted on the fingers of one hand.
So, on this particular morning, Jeremy Mallinson and I walked around the grounds, determined to be ruthless in our choice of the animals we had to dispose of. Jeremy is our Zoological Director and he had joined our ranks just a few weeks after the zoo opened, coming to us for a temporary job: a temporary job that has lasted thirty years. With his Duke of Wellington nose, his buttercup-coloured hair and his bright blue eyes, Jeremy was as devoted to our animals as if he had given birth to each of them personally. His habit of referring to human male and female acquaintances as ‘fine specimens’ was an indication that his job tended to creep into his everyday life.
Our first stop was at the tapir paddock. These South American beasts are about the size of an elongated Shetland pony, and vaguely resemble a cross between a prehistoric horse and a truncated mini-elephant. Because of their strange, prehensile noses they were called Claudius and Claudette and their baby was Nero. They moved over the paddock towards us, uttering tiny falsetto squeaks of greeting, sounds which are ridiculously minuscule coming from such portly, chocolate-coloured beasts. I remembered, as I scratched Claudius’ ear, how I had found him squatting, benign but depressed, in the window of an animal dealer’s shop in Buenos Aires. My Spanish not being up to such a situation, I enlisted the help of one of the most beautiful women I have known, Bebita Ferreyra, to help me with the bargaining. She swept into the dingy shop and within seconds, with a combination of charm and fishwife-like shrewdness, she had so captivated the owner that Claudius was purchased for half the price.