Travelers to foreign and, especially, remote places often encounter the local wildlife but not necessarily where they expect it. I’ve been musing about this topic during my travels through New Zealand. There are certainly a lot of strange and interesting animals here but they are unlikely to barge in on you in your room. The reason is partly because many of the endemic creatures here are cryptic and difficult even for professionals to observe. The other reason is that the hotels we’ve frequented make an effort to exclude the local wildlife from the guest’s rooms.
I guess this is a good thing but fails to create vivid memories about our lodgings. Most of the motor lodges or serviced apartments in New Zealand are designed and furnished alike. Consequently, they all seem to blend together after a while. What makes a place stand out and remain indelibly in my memory are those where something particularly strange or uncomfortable or surprising occurs.
Such was the case with my stay a few years ago at the Australian Institute of Marine Science’s guest quarters for visiting scientists. It was mid-summer in the Southern Hemisphere, and the temperature and humidity were oppressive. The cabins, constructed of dark wood, were spacious with two bedrooms, bath, kitchen, and living room. They are not air-conditioned, however, which makes them attractive to the local animals adapted to the tropical climate.
I was there alone, working at one of my field sites in the nearby mangrove forest and so had one of these cabins all to myself. Being summer, there were no other visiting scientists and few of the resident scientists, who were apparently smart enough to be somewhere cooler during this part of the year. At 4:30 pm, all of the staff stampedes to their cars for the drive back to Townsville, which is about 40 minutes away from AIMS.
So in the evenings, it was just me, a night watchman, and the local wildlife (mostly wallabies grazing on the grounds). It was quite pleasant and reassuring to be so isolated. I was much more nervous traveling alone and staying in a regular motel where lots of people were coming and going.
After I checked in and moved my gear into the cabin I was assigned, I wandered around the rooms poking into closets and looking under the beds for any potentially poisonous animals that Australia is so famous for. However, everything looked clean and free of anything that might crawl into bed with me.
As I passed the “water closet”, I stepped inside and saw that the toilet bowl was a bit dirty. So I flushed it and continued on to the kitchen to unload my groceries. As I was walking down the hall, I noticed that the pipes were thumping and knocking loudly from the flush.
It sounded like, “Haroonk, haroonk, haroonk.” But the noise died out fairly quickly, and I forgot all about it.
That night, I tossed and turned, not yet acclimated to the heat and humidity. Finally, I woke, needing to go to the toilet. I could not remember where the light in the hallway was, so groped my way down the corridor, counting the doors to the water closet. When I opened the door, I could see fairly well by the light shining in the window.
As I approached the toilet, I noticed something large and dark sitting on the seat.
“Hmmm”, I thought to myself. “Maybe I should turn on the light and see what this is before I sit down?”
When I flipped the light switch, I saw that the object was a huge, green frog, which was now staring at me with unblinking golden eyes. I stepped toward it, intending to grab it. However, it was much faster and dove into the toilet bowl. It disappeared into the plumbing before I had gotten more than one step. I momentarily thought I had been dreaming. But no, I had really seen a giant frog doing a swan dive into my toilet.
As I stood over the toilet, staring into the empty bowl, I tried to decide what my next move might be. I really needed to go, so turned and sat, after first wiping down the seat with toilet paper (the frog had left some droppings). After finishing, I quickly stood and flushed the toilet.
Almost immediately, I heard echoing in the plumbing, “Haroonk, haroonk, haroonk.” What I had earlier mistaken for water knocking in the pipes was actually the giant frog croaking, its calls reverberating through the cabin’s plumbing.
I went back to bed and really did not think about the frog again until the next night. I did not see or hear the frog all day. When I woke in the middle of the night again with the urge to urinate, I tiptoed down the hall without turning on any lights and peered into the water closet.
Sure enough, I could make out the dim outline of the frog perched on the seat in what I perceived as a challenging posture, much like a squatter on a piece of land they’ve claimed as their own.
This time, I flipped on the light and immediately dove at the toilet. But again, the frog was too fast and jumped into the toilet bowl. However, instead of disappearing into the pipes, it attached itself with what appeared to be sticky toe pads to the side of the bowl.
I hit the flush but the frog held on as the water swirled and gurgled around and around. Just as I reached down to try to grab the frog clinging to the slick bowl, it pushed off and disappeared into the drain.
Seconds later, I heard, “Haroonk, haroonk, haroonk.” I did my business and trudged back to the bedroom.
The next day I was busy in the field doing my research and returned late in the day, exhausted, hot, and dehydrated. I fell asleep early but again woke in the middle of the night with the need to empty my bladder. This time I turned on no lights and crept down the hall as soundlessly as I could.
I had deliberately left the door to the water closet open earlier. I cautiously peered around the edge of the doorframe and spotted the frog sitting in his usual place on what was clearly his throne. This time, I did not stop or turn on any lights. I just swooped in and slapped my hand down on the frog.
Success! I had finally caught it unawares.
I flipped on the light so I could get a good look at my captive. It was a bright green color with smooth, and, yes, somewhat slimy skin (whether from living in the toilet or natural secretions was not clear) with a few white spots along its side. Its body was rather stocky and it had a somewhat comical look on its face. Its toes were tipped with large pads, which clearly were designed for gripping smooth surfaces (although I’m guessing that the evolutionary pressure leading to this feature did not involve toilet bowls). It was clearly some type of tree frog, but much larger than any I had ever encountered.
[Based on these characteristics, I’ve since identified it as an Australian green tree frog, Litoria caerulea. According to Wikipedia, it is native to Australia and New Guinea, but has been introduced to New Zealand (!) and the US (!!). Because of its physical characteristics and docile behavior, it’s become a favorite pet. Of particular relevance to this story is this description:
“Green tree frogs are well known for inhabiting water sources inside houses, such as sinks or toilets……The frogs are drawn to downpipes (downspouts) and tanks (cisterns) during mating season, as the fixtures amplify their call….The species’ call is a low, slow Brawk-Brawk-Brawk, repeated many times.”]
Image by Aidan Jones: http://www.flickr.com/photos/aidan_jones/1515735224/
As it struggled to free itself from my grip, I marveled at the frog’s strength and size. I stretched it out, and from nose to toe tip, it was about a foot long. I briefly considered letting it stay in my toilet, but decided against it because it was making a slimy, black mess of the toilet seat. And who knows what kind of froggy pathogens it might be carrying?
So I carried the frog to the back door and tossed it into the grass. “Good riddance,” I thought.
You’ve probably guessed what happened next. The following night, I made my usual nocturnal visit to the bathroom. I flipped on the light and was flabbergasted to see the frog (I had no doubt it was the same one) sitting in his usual spot on the toilet seat, with what I perceived as a particularly smug expression.
My mouth dropped open and I shouted, “What! Not you again.”
Again, I lunged at it, whipping my hand across the bowl in a swiping motion. I caught it in mid-leap and unceremoniously marched to the back door with it struggling in my hand. This time, I walked far away from my cabin to the edge of the forest and dropped it in the brush.
In a stern voice, I said, “This is where you belong. And don’t come back!”
The frog hopped onto a nearby shrub and climbed up onto a limb. I turned and stomped back to the cabin.
Needless to say, the next night, the frog was back, sitting possessively on my toilet. This time, I failed to catch it, and it disappeared into the plumbing. This went on for several more nights, the frog having sized me up and figured out that as soon as I appeared in the doorway, it should dive for safety into the toilet bowl.
Between the mess on the toilet seat and the “Haroonk, haroonk, haroonk,” echoing through the cabin all day and night, I was totally stressed out. So I hatched a plan to capture and rid myself of this nemesis once and for all.
Part of my problem previously was the fact that I was half asleep when faced with catching a fast-moving animal. My half-awake reflexes were just not fast enough, and my brain was not at full throttle. So on the designated night, I worked late in the lab and returned to the cabin about the same time I normally woke up for my nightly toilet run. I was hoping that the long period of quiet in the cabin would convince the frog that I had left for good (I wasn’t thinking too clearly by this point, upset at having been outwitted by an amphibian).
I quietly slipped into the cabin, waited until my eyes had adjusted to the dark, and tip-toed down the hallway. I figured that frogs might be like a lot of predators and unable to see anything that does not move fast. I gradually crept into the water closet, inch by inch. I hoped that my movements were so slow that they would be essentially imperceptible to the frog, especially in the dark.
It seemed to work. The frog remained sitting motionless and made no indication that it detected me advancing on its position. After a few painstaking minutes, I had worked my way almost to the toilet and within reach of the frog. Once in position, I gradually moved my hand, a few millimeters at a time, to a spot over the frog.
I quickly slapped my hand down on it. Success! It made a mighty attempt to leap into the safety of the toilet bowl, but I had a good grip on its slippery body. And I wasn’t about to let go.
I carried it into the utility room and put it into a box that I had prepared beforehand and taped it shut until morning. The next day, I carried it down the road and into the woods at least a half mile from the cabin.
Next night, no frog. I was ecstatic. I spent a good hour scrubbing the toilet and gloating at my victory over an animal with a brain the size of a peanut.
The next couple of days were filled with lots of work, both in the lab and field. I would soon be leaving and began packing my gear for the trip home. My plan was to get up early to drive to the Townsville airport to catch my flight back to the US.
As my last day arrived, I scurried around finishing the last of my sample analyses and packing. I went to bed early, around 8 p.m., and set the alarm. At 3 a.m., my alarm sounded, and I dragged myself out of bed. I trudged down the hall for my last visit to the water closet.
I flipped on the light and could not believe my eyes. Perched on the toilet seat was a fat, green frog with a very familiar smirk on its face. It blinked once and in a flash, dove into the water and wriggled into the drain, its toes seeming to wave at me. I was in a state of shock, trying to figure out if this was a different frog, taking over deserted territory, or if the same one, how in hell did it find its way back?
However, I did not have time to ponder this puzzle, not wanting to miss my flight. I quickly dressed and gathered up my luggage. As I reached the front door, I paused as a familiar, but this time a distinctly triumphant, sound reverberated through the cabin, “Haroonk, haroonk, haroonk.”
I had no doubt, then, that this was the same frog that had returned, through some mysterious homing instinct, to claim my toilet as its personal pond. I closed the door quietly and walked to my car, defeated and humbled by the tenacity of nature.
Wines and Wetlands 