(Sir Reginald Copperbottom is a self-proclaimed British naturalist and distant [really distant] cousin to renowned scientist David Attenborough. He has no real credentials, but once met Jane Goodall in a train station. He’s not even really a knight. Nonetheless, to be fully comprehensible, this must be read in a British cockney accent.)
Welcome to the first installment of Fiji Wildlife Corner! My name is Sir Reginald Copperbottom and I am here to be your guide through the wilds of Fiji. As you well know, Fiji was once a British territory, so who better than myself to describe the perils and wonders of the Fijian wilderness, if I do say so myself. I must say that the invitation to contribute to your esteemed publication, The Coconut Wireless, marks one of my most significant achievements to date and I relish the opportunity to educate and inform the Peace Corps volunteers about Fiji’s abundant fauna.
Today I would very much appreciate your attention to a grave danger lurking in the Fijian jungle. The danger of which I speak is one that can easily be avoided, but some Peace Corps volunteers seem to have deliberately sought it out. The danger I speak of is bufotoxin. Bufotoxin is a poison secreted from the parotoid gland of a number of species of toad. The poison can contain a variety of compounds that include stimulants, laxatives, and even hallucinogens. Specifically, some toads harbor a very potent hallucinogenic tryptamine known as 5-MeO-DMT that has been known to cause such visions as being in a boat on a river with tangerine trees and marmalade skies as well as cellophane flowers of yellow and green towering over your head…at least that’s what some spacker from Liverpool told me.
Here in Fiji, there are at least three species of toad that possess bufotoxin, including Bufo marinus, otherwise known as the cane toad. Indeed, the cane toad possesses a level and mixture of bufotoxin that can prove deadly. Most unfortunately, it seems that some PCV’s have intentionally engaged in the dangerous game of “toadlicking,” presumably seeking those toads harboring hallucinogenic properties in an effort to temporarily escape the trials and tribulations they experience as volunteers.
To illustrate the extreme danger of toadlicking, I must relate to you the story of one unfortunate bloke we all know quite well, but that we shall call Smalden Pitts. Smalden had been experiencing some particularly taxing ordeals following his assignment to a remote village on the island of Vanua Levu. Smalden had hoped dearly to find a Fijian wife upon his arrival in his village. Unfortunately, Smalden was of a very slight build and, despite his most admirable efforts, his advances were categorically begged off by the fairer sex, who seemed to be seeking a more strapping specimen. In a swirl of despair and utterly disenchanted with the effects of yaqona, he sought a more powerful escape from the rejection of the village totties.
On a particularly warm and humid South Pacific evening, just as the toads were emerging from their burrows, Smalden ventured out on what almost became his final quest in Fiji. Determined to reach a new plane of existence, Smalden set about to find a toad to take him away from his unbearable pain. Unfortunately, Smalden did not know the slightest bit about psychoactive toads, or much less toads in general. Smalden licked several frogs and even a gecko before coming across his first toad, but a bloody good toad it was! Indeed, the toad was the dog’s bollocks for a short time.
As the toxin entered his bloodstream, the psychoactive elixir drove his imagination to mither of giant singing tacos dancing in a Broadway revue. Not satisfied with this vision, and becoming quite annoyed if not frightened by the content, Smalden sought out another toad in hopes of “changing the telly” so to speak. Alas, things went even more pear shaped as the next toad only intensified even more frightening images of a group of circus clowns chasing him whilst each waggling an artificial phallus in their right hands above their ginger quiffs. Whilst running to escape the evil jesters intent on buggering him, he felt a searing pain flushing over his skin, following which he looked down to see his knickers ablaze. The last the villagers observed of Smalden that fateful evening he was shrieking wildly whilst dashing naked through the middle of the village. In an unintelligible conclusion to a presently confusing situation, Smalden screamed “Eskimo Pies!” before disappearing into the jungle.
The next morning the villagers found Smalden knackered, bare arsed, and covered in his own cack (turns out one of the toads had the laxative compound) in the middle of a dusty road with both hands covering his John Thomas. Thinking him a bit nutter, the village immediately held an emergency Bose va Koro in which they voted unanimously to expel Smalden from the village, permanently.
Of all the Peace Corps Volunteers in Fiji, Bob is by far the most profound expert at home gardening or other quasi-agricultural endeavors. He is especially well known for his ability to grow certain vegetables in conditions that mere mortals simply would not be able to achieve, but is also a skilled leader and diplomat capable of sowing peace and goodwill among his cohorts. The following story is sort of truthfully based on events that were confirmed after being repeated third-hand from a guy in Germany on Facebook, thereby ensuring their absolute veracity. Names have been changed to protect the innocent (Bob’s name is used because he is far from innocent…).
After being in Fiji for almost four months, Meg B had been missing home terribly. One of the things she missed most was salsa and chips. Unable to find a respectable salsa in the entire country, she determined that the only way she was going to have decent salsa was to grow her own garden, including those ripe, red tomatoes that are critical for the most popular condiment in the world.
While some of her vegetables did modestly well, Meg’s first attempt at growing tomatoes was less than stellar. For hours of effort that included getting her nails dirty, squishing icky bugs, and actually scooping real poop to fertilize her plants. she was rewarded with less than 10 small tomatoes that looked more like developmentally disabled marbles than tomatoes. Needless to say, her first efforts did not produce the fruit, or the salsa, that she so desired. However, Meg remained desperate for her salsa fix.
Like a commoner seeking wisdom from a mountaintop yogi, Meg trekked to see Bob and learn from the master. Upon reaching Casa del Bob, she saw a paradise of green, like she had stepped into the Garden of Eden. There were big round pumpkins in a variety of colors, large ripe melons covering every spare patch of soil, and the intoxicating fragrance of bulbous chrysanthemums paired at the end of each plot. And then there were the tomatoes…big, plump, brilliant red fruits the size of softballs that seemed to scream, “eat me!” As usual, Bob was hunched over in his garden of plenty, unaware he was exposing his golden underpants from under his pocket sulu while mumbling something unintelligible about someone named Joseph Smith.
“Bob?” said Meg tentatively, not sure if the golden bloomers did indeed belong to the man with the gilded green thumb.
“Giiiiiiaaaaaannnnnnttttttssssss!!!” screamed Bob unexpectedly, flailing and seeming to jump out of his own skin.
Bob was still suffering from a condition known as worldseriesosis, which results in paranoia, tunnel vision, impaired hearing, an inability to focus on anything other than very discrete television or radio signals, and an unquenchable hunger for roasted peanuts. It is a disease that is incurable, but fortunately the symptoms only manifest annually for a short period of time. Gardening was the only thing that seemed to alleviate the symptoms for Bob. Nevertheless, the unanticipated visitor startled him almost to the level of incontinence.
Meg nearly fell backward onto a blanket of enormous acorn squash before regaining her footing next to a row of round eggplants that came up to her chest.
“Bob, it’s Meg. I’ve come seeking your guidance and wisdom. You have to help me with my garden. I’m desperate!” said Meg.
Bob stood up with his back still turned and slowly rotated toward Meg. Placing his hands together while his right eye twitched uncontrollably (no doubt a side effect of worldseriesosis) he said, “Then you have come to the right place, my child. What is the knowledge that you seek?”
Almost in tears, Meg exclaimed, “Bob, I’m desperate to make some salsa and I absolutely must grow some tomatoes! I’ve tried everything and all I get is these…” She extended her hand and let a half dozen misshapen, marble-sized tomatoes drop to the ground.
For the next ten minutes they engaged in a question and answer designed to eliminate every possible problem that Meg might be facing with her tomatoes. Beetles, slugs, nematodes, blossom rot, planting over an Indian burial ground…Meg had either solved or had not even experienced it all. In the end, Bob sat confounded, rubbing his chin with his thumb and forefinger while maintaining one raised eyebrow. Then a sly grin slowly overtook his face and he looked at Meg directly while extending his arms and grabbing both her shoulders firmly.
“Meg, what I’m about to tell you is one of my greatest gardening secrets. I am about to pass on knowledge to you that very few people on this planet know.” Bob said with a tone of seriousness.
“Uh, OK.” said Meg. “Is this going to cost me anything?
“Not a dime.” said Bob. “The secret to my tomatoes, aside from the organic fertilizer and my godlike gardening skills, is something special I do when I tend my garden. You know that I’m prone to remove my clothing at any opportunity. When I tend my garden, I do it naked!”
“Really?!” exclaimed Meg. “But what about the villagers and the modest dress code here in Fiji?”
“Not a problem. I do it after the grog session shuts down in the middle of the night. Nobody is awake to see anything at 2 a.m. in the village.” Bob said. “Oh, by the way, if you decide to follow my advice you might want to see Dr. Fina about some more mosquito spray.”
“That’s it…naked…that’s all I have to do?” she questioned.
“Yup! Works for me! Look at my pumpkins, melons, tomatoes, and even my papaya!” Bob responded emphatically with a smile and a jig that looked like he was in an Appalachian hoedown.
So Meg went back to her village and set about practicing the wisdom that had been passed to her by Bob. A few weeks went by and Bob, wondering whether she had heeded his advice and whether it had worked, decided to call Meg and see how things were going.
(ring)
“Meg! So how’s it going? You got some good tomato action goin’?” Bob said over one of the better Digicel connections he’d experienced.
“Um, well, better I guess.” said Meg rather unsurely.
“So since you’ve been gardening naked you have seen an improvement in your tomatoes, right?” Bob responded.
There was a pregnant pause that made Bob think that maybe the call had been dropped.
“Meg, you there? You’re garden is doing a lot better, right?” he said again.
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