I wish I hadn’t used the sophisticated and witty wisecrack, “call me butter because I’m on a roll” the other day, because it turns out that at the moment, I’m . . . well, on a roll. Except now I can’t call myself butter without unfunnily repeating said bon mot.
So, moving right along, the roll on which I now am is related to the last two posts on cryptids of one sort or another. While looking into things like Yowies, the Fiji Mermaid and the Jackalope, I came across another sub-genre of mythical beasts, which contains all those without the myriad advantages of a taxidermic fake to promote their agendas.
There are lots and lots of these – every civilised society seems to have had the need to create tales of menacing animals to scare people with. Whatever the psychology behind this tendency, the imaginative effort that goes into these creations is impressive.
Probably the most well-known example, in the U.S. at least, is the snipe: rubes and noobs are sent on a snipe hunt, when they have no hope of actually catching the beast (which, confusingly, is not the kind of snipe hunted with shotguns in Scotland). In some permutations, the sucker is given a sack and told to wait in the woods for the snipe, and then capture it in the bag. Sometimes they’re told to imitate the snipe’s mythical call – so there they are, alone in the dark woods, holding a sack and going “icki icki icki” or “woooah woooah” or some such.
It’s a typical fool’s errand – like tradesmen sending new apprentices out to buy a can of tartan paint, or borrow a triple stand from chortling colleagues. As a rite of passage, this totally beats the rubbing of toothpaste or liniment on the initiate’s scrotum, a practice much beloved of scout troops in my youth – a baptism of fire if there ever was one.
In Australia, snipe-type tales are generally designed to fool and terrify the unwary – in particular, tourists. The terrifying Drop Bear is said to be lured by foreign accents, leaving those with an Aussie twang alone. A drop bear (whose Latin name is thylarctos plummetus), is a ferocious carnivorous relation of the koala. It’s said to ambush unsuspecting hikers as they walk under the trees in which they lurk – very unlike the pacifist koala, who prefers to cling to its branch getting stoned on eucalyptus leaves.
To really add insult to injury, the unsuspecting foreigner is told that to ward off drop bear attack, they need to submit to some humiliating practice, like spreading vegemite behind the ears, wearing a fork in the hair, or never drinking Bundaburg rum. Reputable travel website TripAdvisor contains much useful advice on avoiding attack by drop bears – it’s worth a read.
Interestingly, there doesn’t seem to be much mention of drop bear sightings, unlike the Yowie – and the nightmarish hoop snake, whose habitat spreads across both north America and Australia.
The hoop snake attacks its prey by holding its tail in its mouth and rolling like a wheel at great speed. Some accounts report that it straightens out at the last second like a javelin, embedding its poisonous tail in its screaming victim.
The thing is, the image of a snake with its tail in its mouth is an ageless one: several ancient societies, including the Egyptians and the Greeks found it to be a powerful symbol. The ouroboros, as the Greeks called it, stands for eternal renewal or the reconciliation of opposites and became popular with alchemists and practitioners of various metaphysical doctrines – a far cry from ensuring rookie hikers get no sleep while trekking in the woods.
But as mentioned, there have been reports of hoop snake sightings – and as with the Yowie, a $10,000 reward was offered for definitive proof of the wheel-like reptile’s existence; history is silent as to whether the reward has been claimed, but it seems unlikely, somehow.
Snakes in general are not a beloved prospect here at Corner Cottage. We’re told an encounter is likely as the days get warmer, and that doesn’t exactly fill the heart with joy.
Long, long ago, on leaving school, a bunch of mates and I went hiking in the remote Chimanimani Mountains of Zimbabwe. As we’d be passing through the domain of the frankly terrifying Gaboon Viper, we had a short briefing about what to do if one of our number was bitten.
Now, the Gaboon Viper holds the record for the longest fangs in all snakedom, and our instructor told us with relish that when the viper strikes, it keeps its fangs embedded in the victim’s flesh, pumping in more and more deadly poison. So the first step in rectifying the situation is to grasp the thing firmly by the head and pull it off your unfortunate friend. Then, to administer the antivenom, select a major muscle – the gluteus maximus is ideal – bash the wide-bored needle in as deeply as possible, and when blood spurts out, attach the syringe and let fly.
Failure to do so is likely to be fatal – especially where there are no roads and it takes the best part of a day to walk in or out. Suffice to say, we politely informed each other that if anyone was unfortunate enough to be struck by a Gaboon, they were doomed because we were just not up for administering the cure. And the entire time we were out there, we walked very, very loudly to ensure no Gaboon could be surprised by our appearance.
Now, while I was typing that, it did cross my mind that my chums might have been inflicting a hoop snake-like tall tale on the greener of their companions, but a quick check online reveals that it’s all true. But given that Australia has a rich variety of the world’s most venomous snakes which are widely distributed and quite common, it’s legitimate to ask: why bother to make up terrifying tales about the dangers to be found in the woods? A swift dose of the truth would make most prospective bushwalkers (as they’re called here) stay at home, probably in bed with the doors and windows shut.
And we haven’t even mentioned spiders yet.