“[…] the fundamental reason why I have spent my life in the way I have, and why I am reluctant to stop making programmes, is that I know of no pleasure deeper than that which comes from contemplating the natural world and trying to understand it.”
Who cannot agree with that statement? Every time I watch a documentary with him, Jeff Corwin, Austin Stevens, Kevin Richardson or late Steve Irwin, as well as many others, I cannot help feeling a pang of envy at their marvelous lives. To be able to connect with nature and its animals on such deep levels seems to me the ultimate fulfillment.
Of course, it isn’t an easy life; just read the book and you’ll understand what lies behind an hour of documentary: hard work, injuries, illnesses, shortcomings, hard conditions to live by for months – in some cases, even for years.
And not all of us can do that, even given the chance; I, for one, most certainly could not, given my insects phobia. But I would have loved such a life.
The book itself is the journey of Sir David Attenborough from the beginning of his career in television to nowadays. His unmistakable voice can be heard even in his written words. His subtle humor, vivid descriptions, enthusiasm, sadness, awe and love for nature are present in every page.
My only discontent is that I did not listen the audio version of it, hearing his voice telling his own story. I think that’s the best way to get the maximum pleasure from this book.
There are too many passages that I loved, and I thought including them here. Turned out there were way too many. It was hard to choose just a few, but I had managed in the end.
Stepping out into the heat and humidity of a West African afternoon was like entering a heated sauna. The hedge beside the ramshackle airport was bright with the scarlet trumpets of hibiscus. […] Among them I suddenly spotted, clinging to the branch but rigidly immobile, a bright green chameleon. As I took a step towards it to get a closer look, my foot trod on the grassy verge and the leaves, to my astonishment, suddenly hinged back to lie alongside the main stems. It was sensitive mimosa. All in all, that little strip of ordinary hedge was a revelation of the glory and fecundity of tropical nature from which I have never recovered.
It was simple enough to calculate how many birds these represented. A King of Saxony male only produces two head plumes, only two bunches spring from the flanks of Count Raggi’s Bird. A Superb Bird has only one green bib. So I could easily see that each man wore the plumes of between twenty and thirty birds. And there were at least five hundred dancers. At that one performance, the men of Minj had decorated themselves with the feathers of twenty thousand slaughtered birds of paradise.
There were at least half a dozen different species of armadillo to be found there. In Guarani, they are known as tatu. After several people had reacted oddly to our explaining that we hoped to chase all kinds of tatu, we discovered that tatu was also a slang expression for girls. An English equivalent might be ‘crumpet’. When we cleared up any misunderstandings on this point, people seemed to find it even stranger that we should be chasing four-legged tatu rather than two-legged ones.
‘You do know what is it, don’t you?’ she whispered.
‘Well, yes’, I said nervously. ‘It’s three quartz crystals covered with mammiferous haematite.’
I sensed that this was not the right answer.
‘You are wrong,’ she said firmly. ‘Those are the fossilized private parts of a pygmy. Why on earth you would think they are quartz crystals?’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘they are hexagonal. They have six sides and a pointed end.’
She snatched the specimen away from me and wrapped it up again.
‘And how do you know,’ she said haughtily, ‘that a pygmy’s private parts don’t get six sides when they fossilize?’
To which question I failed to find an answer.
An amazing man with an even more amazing life.