The Aborigines of northern Australia sing the Song of the Snake, which
tells how Old Man Nargorcor sent his rainbow snakes on a great walkabout
to create the natural features of the earth. Eric Worrell borrowed the
title for the story of his own walkabout in the wilder regions of Australia
and his encounters with snakes and many other creatures-black men and
buffaloes, white men and mutton birds, spiders and swagmen, eagles and
crocodiles.
His wanderings took him from the Northern Territory and tropical Queensland
to the islands of Bass Strait, where he captured many snakes, among them
deadly taipans and tiger snakes. Much of this perilous work was undertaken
on behalf of the Commonwealth Serum Laboratories, which needed the venom
of dangerous species to make antivenom Other adventures include a crocodile
hunting voyage, a shipwreck, hatching crocodile eggs in bed, an expedition
into Arnhem Land in search of cave paintings and rare fauna, encounters
with charging buffaloes and the making of a film about the mutton-birds
of Bass Strait for television. All these experiences, and more, vividly
recorded in words and photographs, make up Song of the Snake, a book
that offers not only exciting incident but also a rich store of first-hand
information on the natural life of our continent, and opens up for the
reader a new and fascinating world.
Here are some passages from this delightfully written book.
During my schooldays in Sydney, weekends would be entirely devoted to
the study of small living things. I was passionately fond of animals
of every kind, and, with a little band of school mates, I would take
a safari to Centennial Park and observe and collect series of snakes,
lizards, frogs, fish and eels, keeping a sharp lookout for the uniformed
ranger on his beautifully groomed brown horse.
These specimens would be brought home and housed in specially built
glass cases kept in a back yard shed. Sometimes I would catch a tram
to Coogee and visit elderly George Longley who kept a magnificent collection
of live lizards at his home. He encouraged me in many ways, exchanged
specimens with me and introduced me to many famous naturalists who previously
had been names on the covers of the books they had written, exalted beyond
my sphere.
When George Longley died in 1945 he bequeathed his collection to me,
the descendants of which I still have. George Longley was a sad loss
to zoology.
As a Sunday afternoon jaunt my father would perhaps drive me to La Perouse
where I first saw George Cann, the snake-man, and dropped threepences
in the collection plate after his demonstrations. After awhile George
Cann became used to seeing the little, curly-headed boy in short pants
and a blazer standing about for hour after hour. Sometimes he would let
me carry a bag of snakes home with him, and the day George Cann himself
actually gave me a whip snake was one boasted about for many months.
During World War 2 food was rationed and our camp was protein hungry.
The only meat we had was boring bully beef and dreadful tinned herrings
we called 'goldfish'. Occasionally we caught an odd fish in a large V
shaped trap of wire netting constructed on the beach of East Point below
the cliff-top camp. Imagine the drooling delight and the cheers that
rang out the night a greenback turtle was caught. Turtle steak and mouth-watering
turtle soup was already on the anticipated menu as they dragged the thrashing
turtle from the trap. That was until I came along. I made my pleas and
won the case. I am still not sure whether the men's tears were those
of frustration of guilt as to their original intentions. The beautiful
turtle was released unharmed.
However, there was a small recompense a few days later. The Japanese
made a sudden air raid on East Point. There was no time to shelter, everyone
flattened to the ground as the shrapnel blasted over our heads. As soon
as the bombers passed over we surveyed the damage and counted casualties.
A daisy-cutter had torn through our iron hut, ruined my mosquito net
and hurled my tin trunk of snakes thirty feet without damage. Not a scratch
on a man, but one python and one bandicoot had been killed in the bush
outside the hut.
The camp cook was aghast when he found a neatly skinned python and an
equally dressed bandicoot inside his refrigerator. He was a good sport,
he knew we were hungry. He stuffed and baked the bandicoot but drew the
line at snake. This was cooked ourselves over the campfire.
We hunted in the vicinity of the Cook Highway near Palm Beach, with
the thought that perhaps more taipans would come to light there, but
by midday we felt and looked like dried prunes. We looked longingly at
the green coconuts hanging in bunches from the Palms high above our heads,
and I thought of the times I'd quenched my thirst with the juice of green
coconuts from Darwin's coconut groves.
There was no energy left to climb for the nuts, but we noticed a few
green ones lying at the foot of some of the palms. We chopped the ends
off with a tomahawk and found the juice quite palatable although slightly
sour. With our backs against the palms we sprawled on the beach beside
the highway and let the juice gurgle down our throat. Our thirsts were
insatiable and we emptied coconut after coconut.
“'If I could be paid thirty pounds a week to hunt taipans, I think
I'd spend from 10am to 5pm doing exactly this,' breathed Charles
(Tanner) happily, as he tossed away an empty nut. 'It's perfectly ridiculous
looking
for taipans during those hours.'
I was feeling strange, and vaguely remember muttering something about
being no taipans left anyway.
Two hours later I came to, leaning against the base of the palm with
an empty coconut between my knees. The sun was overhead and burning directly
onto me. I had a throbbing headache and was soaked in perspiration. Charles
was spread-eagled in the sun with his face buried in the sand, while
Eric West was on his back under a mango tree, mouth open and little lizards
running all over him catching flies.
It was another half-hour before I could stagger to my feet. Eric was
nursing a terrific headache too, while Charles was having trouble focusing
bloodshot eyes. It eventually dawned on us that the coconuts had been
fermented, and we were suffering from the daddy of all hangovers from
the jungle-juice. After that experience we never round to pulling a few
green ones from the palms. We carried a gallon water bottle instead.
(Catching tiger snakes and muttonbirds on Chappell Island)
One afternoon I was salting down birds when I heard a sound outside
the shed. I pushed open the door. Roy Goss was standing white faced
outside. He held up his arm and blood dribbled from the wrist. There
was a crude,
rope tourniquet above the elbow.”
“Snake bite”
Mrs. Goss peered through the flyscreen window of the scalding shed and
began to weep. Arthur King, whom she had watched dying from the bite
of a Chappell Island tiger snake at Whitmark hotel, was her uncle.
Eric (West) ran to the tent for the tiger snake antivenene. I sat Roy
on a bag of muttonbird feathers, and while Mrs. Goss brought the kettle
to boil I replaced the rope tourniquet with a more efficient rubber one.
Then I opened the incisions Roy had made until the tendons were bared.
We had to be severe. His life was at stake, and no other medical help
could be obtained. There was no wireless or any other form of communication
on the island, and the boat could not be launched in the heavy sea that
was running.
Roy was sweating with the pain of the constricting tourniquet. His face
was deathly pale under the burrow grime.
Eric (West) came back with the ampoules of serum and a syringe. Sterilizing
the syringe, assembling the syringe, breaking the tops from the serum
ampoules, and drawing the serum through the needle seemed to take ages.
Locating a vein was not difficult. Roy’s arm bulged with them.
His skin was like rhinoceros hide and the needle bowed before it
pierced the skin and slid into a vein. Allowing a time for the serum
to circulate
I released the tourniquet and made him sit quietly in front of the
kitchen fire with strict orders to keep quiet for the rest of the day.
An hour
later his colour had returned to normal.
I checked his pulse and general reflexes and asked how he felt.
“'Bonzer,' he growled. 'Bring me that snake and I'll eat him.'
Every person who kills a snake, places themselves in a dangerous position.
A dying or wounded snake can do much more damage than a healthy snake
free to wriggle away at the human’s approach. In the bush where
it can do no harm there is no point in going out of your way to kill
a snake. Snakes control their own numbers, so are unlikely to have
their numbers influenced by the odd ones that are killed. In many
areas along
the Murray River deadly tiger snakes occur in thousands, yet in most
of these areas there is no record of anybody ever being bitten.
Snake-bite is rarely accidental. It is the result of an injured snake
defending itself, or a captive snake resenting handling.
For years I pumped information out of Eric. A short phone call would
often be followed by highly quotable details. For example, two years
ago I was intrigued by a strange report of a patient developing “black
and white” vision for a time after he head been bitten by a
snake. A call to Eric, who had just come out of hospital after a
cobra bite,
resulted in the following dispassionate catalogue of observations:
“Comparing my whiteout and blackout, the most sever blackout I
have experienced was from the bite of a broad-headed snake about
1945. The snake measured about half a metre and delivered a full bite,
and
I experienced a blackout about 10 to 15 minutes later but received
no treatment. I had a severe headache, no paralysis, and recovered from
my blindness within an hour.
“The first time I experienced a whiteout where everything appeared
white, I could distinguish pink objects around me until I passed
out, and this occurred from antivenom effects in 1951. This whiteout
from
the cobra bite was very similar except I only vomited and excreted
once. The whiteout from the antivenom effects in 1951 I was continually
vomiting
and had no strength and could only crawl on my hands and knees. I
passed out in Dr. Fox's office in Ettalong after help had been called.
“Going back to the cobra whiteout, I suffered no headaches. General
paralysis stopped me feeling anything except local pain in my thumb
and severe constriction of chest where I almost suffocated until the
ambulance
arrived.”
On one memorable evening I confronted him with a list of some forty
questions while he dispensed us both scotch. My notes indicated increased
precision in his answers as the evening wore on. For example; Eric, has
anyone ever died after a copperhead bite? Yes. Years ago. A woman. On
Dog Island, Bass Strait. How do you know it was a copperhead? They're
the only snakes found on Dog Island for Christ's sake! Next Question!
Although not formally trained as a zoologist, his tenaciously enquiring
mind and powers of observation allowed him to develop a special expertise
and an international reputation. His first major work, 'The Reptiles
of Australia', first published in 1963, would have been more than adequate
for a Doctorate of Philosophy. It is still a major reference for both
professionals and lay persons. I'll miss this man. Fortunately, much
of his work will continue thanks to the competence and enthusiasm of
the staff and management of the Australian Reptile Park staff.
A Timeline Through History
