Attenborough & the dragon
In the 1950s TV icon David Attenborough was a young, unknown filmmaker with big dreams. In this enthralling extract from his memoirs he describes a terrifying expedition to capture a Komodo dragon
‘The idea of filming in the wild with a narrator was something of a revolutionary concept, but to my surprise everybody seemed to think it would work’
THE lady at Jakarta’s Ministry of Information took off her glasses and smiled at us. “And why do you want this permit?” she asked. “We’re from England,” I explained. “And we’ve come to Indonesia to make a film. We hope to travel through Java, Bali, Borneo and eventually to the island of Komodo, photographing and collecting animals.” The smile that had spread across her face at the word “film” faded as I mentioned “travel”, and disappeared completely when I said the words “collecting animals”.
“I don’t think this is possible,” she said. There was a pause. “However,” she added, brightening, “I’ll arrange everything for you. You’ll go to the Borobudur instead.” And she pointed to a poster of the great Buddhist temple of central Java. “It’s very beautiful,” I said. “But we’ve come to Indonesia to make films of animals, not temples.”
The lady picked up the papers she’d just stamped for us and tore them in half. “I think we’ll start again,” she said. “Come back in a week.”
Sixty years ago, in the summer of 1957, I set out for Indonesia with my cameraman friend Charles Lagus on what would prove to be one of the most difficult and challenging expeditions of my life. With the rashness of relative youth – he was 29, I was 31 – we made almost no preparations, a decision we’d later regret. But our mission was clear in our minds: to observe and record as much of Indonesia’s abundant wildlife as possible and, our greatest challenge, to capture on film, for the first time, the largest and most dangerous lizard on the planet: the Komodo dragon.
Rumours of this ferocious beast, which can grow to more than three metres long and kill its prey with one swing of its huge, muscular tail, existed for centuries. Fishermen sailing near the remote island of Komodo brought back tales of a vast, dragon-like creature with enormous claws, fearsome teeth, a heavily armoured body and a fiery yellow tongue.
A Dutch expedition in 1910 confirmed the stories were indeed true. Subsequent explorations discovered that the creature was carnivorous and lived nowhere else in the world. But when Charles and I set out nearly 50 years later, nobody had so far managed to film it in its natural habitat. Could we be the first?
Not only that, but we wanted, if we could, to catch one of these amazing reptiles and bring it back to Britain, an idea that sounds extraordinary to us now. These days zoos don’t send animal collectors to capture rare species – and quite right too. Nearly all creatures in captivity are specially bred and closely monitored. But back then things were different.
World War 2 had led to the deaths and destruction of tens of thousands of animals worldwide, and every zoo was keen to replenish its stock. Which is why I’d approached London Zoo and the BBC with an idea for a new kind of wildlife programme. Instead of showing zoo animals in a TV studio in London as we’d always done, I suggested, why not film them in their natural environment with an expert on hand to talk about them to viewers – and then, if possible, bring some of these fascinating creatures back to Britain?
The idea of filming in the wild with a narrator was something of a revolutionary concept, but to my surprise, everybody seemed to think it would work. And so the BBC’s Zoo Quest series was born.
HAVING finally persuaded the authorities to give us the necessary permits Charles and I spent the first days of our trip in a borrowed jeep exploring the forests of Java’s Indian Ocean coast road. After bagging a 3,5m python – the first major prize of our expedition – it was off to Borneo, where we collected a bear cub and orangutan among other animals, and then it was time to head east – to find a Komodo dragon.
The problem of getting to the tiny Indonesian island of Komodo wasn’t one that anybody on Java, its larger neighbour, seemed in the habit of solving.
“The next boat from here,” I said to the clerk at the maritime office. “When does it sail?”
“Next boat, two months,” he replied. It wasn’t an encouraging start to our quest to be the first wildlife team ever to film a Komodo dragon.
The airline officials were a little more helpful. They told us that by flying north to Macassar, on the island of Sulawesi, we could then get from there to Maumere, a town on Flores, the island that lies next door to Komodo.
The planes went every fortnight. Then all we’d have to do was travel just more than 300km to the other end of the island and find a way of crossing the 8km stretch of water to Komodo.
We found several people who’d heard of Maumere, but none who’d been there. Our most authoritative informant was a Chinese man who had a distant relative, That Sen, running a store there who’d sort everything out for us.
“So that’s settled,” I said to Charles, that evening. “It’s easy. We fly to Macassar, connect with a plane to Maumere, discover our Chinese friend’s brother-inlaw, hire a lorry, drive 300km to the other end of Flores, find a canoe and cross the 8km strait to Komodo. Then all we have to do is catch our Komodo dragon.”
Smiling broadly, our new acquaintance, That Sen, held out both hands to us and burst into a flood of very rapid Indonesian. It took us a good while with the dictionary to understand the situation he was describing.
There was only one vehicle in Maumere in working order, he was telling us: a lorry that belonged to him, and that was vital to the island’s economy. It would be unthinkable for us to commandeer it. The only other route to Komodo was by sea.
Was there perhaps a small motor vessel in Maumere harbour we could hire? A little fishing prau [sailing boat]?
“Maybe,” said That Sen, leaping into his lorry and driving off.
It was several hours before he reappeared. Smilingly, he explained all was well. The fishing fleet was at sea, but by a stroke of good fortune one prau was still in harbour and he’d brought its captain with him to discuss our plans.
His price was extremely high. There was no other way of getting to Komodo, and he knew we were desperate to get there. He left looking highly delighted, saying he’d be back the next day.
The prau was tiny. Just 7,5m long, single-masted with a minuscule cabin that could be entered only by crawling into it on our hands and knees. The ship’s crew were two boys of around 14, Hassan and Hamid. As we waved goodbye to That Sen on the jetty, they hoisted the sails and we were off.
It was a fine evening. The wind was fresh and the little boat thrust forward eagerly through the choppy sea.
Charles opted to sleep on the deck while I bunked down in the cabin with the crew. It was difficult to decide who had the worse accommodation. Charles ran the risk of being showered with seawater, or clouted over the head by the boom. On the other hand, he had fresh air which nobody in the overheated cabin with its overwhelming stench of rotting fish could boast. But we were on our way.
Four days into the journey I asked the captain whether we’d reach Komodo the next day. “Maybe,” he replied noncommittally.
The following morning I tried again. “Friend,” I said, “how many hours to Komodo?” “Not know,” he told me. “Have you been to Komodo before?” I persisted.
“Belum,” he said. I looked it up in the dictionary. Belum: not yet. An awful realisation dawned on me. Basically, the captain hadn’t a clue. From that point Charles and I took over navigation, lying on the hot deck with maps in front of us trying to match its mosaic of shapes with the land masses around us.
At last we reached a gap between two islands which we calculated might be the entrance to the channel which would lead to Komodo.
AS THE first glimmerings of dawn spread across the sea, I uncurled my stiff limbs and picked myself up from the deck on which I’d been fitfully sleeping. The land in the lee of which we’d sheltered was, we were now almost certain, Komodo.
As I scanned the grassy slopes, I half-expected to see the scaly head of one of the dragons peering from behind one of the rocks.
A few naked children were standing on the beach. Beside them an old woman was drying shrivelled fragments of shellfish in the sun.
“Peace on the morning,” I said. “The house of the leader?”
She pointed to a hut that looked slightly less decrepit than the others. As we walked across to it an old man stood in the doorway awaiting us. He gave both of us a broad, toothless smile, shook us by the hand and invited us into his house
There were very many giant lizards, or land crocodiles, as he called them, on the island – so many that they’d sometimes wander into the village and scavenge among the rubbish tips, he told us. Nobody hunted them. They weren’t as good to eat as wild pig, and besides, they were highly dangerous.
Only a few weeks before, a local man had stumbled across one lying motionless in the grass. The monster had struck with its powerful tail, knocking the man over and numbing his legs so that he was unable to escape. The creature then turned and mauled him with its mighty jaws. The man’s wounds were so severe that he died.
We asked the leader how we could best attract a Komodo dragon so we could take photographs. He was in no doubt. They have a very keen sense of smell, he told us, and they’ll come from long distances to putrefying meat. That night he’d slaughter two goats and tomorrow his son, Haling, would take us by boat to a place where the dragons were plentiful. All would be well.
The sun had already risen over the brown mountains ahead as we set out with all our filming gear and the goat carcasses in an outrigger canoe the next morning. At last we came to a dry, gravelly bed of a stream overhung by a high bank. “Here,” said Haling. “This is where the lizards are.”
The goats’ carcasses, already decomposing in the heat, were blown up and tight as drums. We staked them in an open space which would give us a good view of the lizards, retired behind a screen of palm leaves and began our wait. Soon it began to rain, the drops pattering gently on the leaves above us. Haling shook his head.
“No good,” he said. “Dragon not like
‘There, facing me, crouched the dragon. He was enormous’
rain. He stay in his room.” As our shirts got wetter and the rainwater trickled down my back I began to feel the dragons were more sensible than we were.
The next morning was cloudless. We landed and set off through the bush as fast as we could. I was anxious to get back to the trap we’d set – it was just possible a dragon might have entered it during the night.
Sadly it hadn’t, but we found some fresh dragon tracks in the mud. After sitting behind our palm screen in absolute silence for over half an hour there was a rustling noise behind us. I turned around and there, facing me, less than 4m away, crouched the dragon. He was enormous. From the tip of his narrow head to the end of his huge tail I guessed he measured about 3m. He was so close I could distinguish every beady scale in his hoary black skin.
He was standing high on his four bowed legs, his head erect and menacing. The line of his savage mouth curved upwards in a fixed sardonic grin and from between his half-closed jaws an enormous yellow-pink forked tongue slid in and out. There was nothing between us and him but a very few small sapling trees. We sat staring at the monster. He stared back.
Then he emitted a heavy sigh and slowly relaxed his legs, splaying them so his great body sank to the ground. He seemed not in the least concerned about us, watching us imperiously with his unblinking black eyes. It was as though he realised he was the most powerful beast on Komodo and, as king of his island, he feared no other creature.
Then I heard a noise from the riverbed. I looked behind me again and saw a young dragon waddling along the sand towards our bait. It was less than a metre in length and had much brighter markings than the monster close to us.
Charles tugged my sleeve. Another enormous lizard was advancing towards the bait. We were surrounded by these wonderful creatures. All three reptiles were now feasting on the goat carcasses in front of us. Meanwhile, Charles filmed feverishly.
It was unbelievable. We’d finally achieved our mission of catching a komodo dragon on film – the first wildlife team to do so. Now all we had to do was capture a real one.
The first dragon was lumbering in the direction of our trap. The smell of the bait inside filtered into his nostrils and he slowed his pace to investigate, ripping aside the palm leaves we’d draped over it, exposing the wooden bars.
Thwarted and unable to reach the meat, he moved to the other end where the door was and with maddening caution looked inside. He took three steps forward and for an interminable time made no movement. At last he went further inside and disappeared entirely from our view. There was silence and then suddenly a loud click, the trigger rope flew loose and the gate thudded down.
Exultantly we ran forward. The dragon peered at us superciliously, flicking his forked tongue through the bars. We could hardly believe that we’d finally achieved the objective of our four-month trip. We sat on the sand looking at our prize and smiling breathlessly at one another.
With our precious cargo we sailed to the large island of Sumbawa, just across the strait from Komodo. From there we planned to fly with the dragon back to Java and then on to London with all the animals from our trip.
But we hadn’t reckoned on the huge bureaucratic struggle we’d face to get ourselves and all the creatures out of Indonesia. For four frustrating days we slept on the airport floor while we waited for a plane. Then, having finally completed the 800km flight to Java, we became immediately embroiled in a series of negotiations that seemed at times to rival the complexities of catching the dragon in the first place.
In the end we were given the shattering news that we weren’t allowed to export the dragon. The other animals we’d collected earlier in the trip would be returning to London with us. But not him. It was a huge and devastating blow after everything we’d been through.
But in a way I wasn’t sorry that we’d had to leave the dragon behind. He would, I’m sure, have been happy and healthy in the large heated enclosures of London Zoo’s reptile house. But he could never have appeared to anyone else as he did to us that day on Komodo, majestic and magnificent in his own forest.
In recognition of Attenborough’s pioneering work with Komodo dragons, and in celebration of his 90th birthday, London Zoo’s Komodo dragon enclosure was last year renamed to The Attenborough Komodo Dragon House. The zoo has one resident Komodo dragon, nine-year-old Ganas.