On a tiny Pacific Island, American naturalist Dr. John N. Hamlet responds to the pleas of a luckless farmer and decides to track down a pig-eating python. But what begins as a casual search for a marauding snake soon becomes a harrowing adventure deep within the earth.
From 1948 to 1950, the late Dr. John N. Hamlet was on a leave of absence from the U. S. Fish and Wildlife Service and on loan to the National Foundation for Infantile Paralysis. The organization had sent him to the Philippines to capture some 5,000 cynomolgus monkeys for the research that would eventually perfect the polio vaccine. Using blowguns and traps, Dr. Hamlet and his native hunters would take as many as 500 monkeys from a given area, then move on to search for another population.
One of his searches for monkeys led him to the tiny island of Cebu. The only lodging he could find on the island was a dump of a boarding house called Squill’s Foxhole. The building had no window screens and bats made regular flights through the house. It was always hot on the tropical island and the residents of Squill’s Foxhole would usually sit on the porch in the evening, waiting for the air to cool before they retired.
It was during one of those tranquil evenings at the boarding house that Dr. Hamlet was caught up in one of his wildest adventures—a chapter in his life that was harrowing yet rewarding. This is how he related the story to me.
Late one Sunday afternoon, we were rocking back and forth on the porch, bored for the lack of something to do, when a Filipino farmer rushed up to the house, all out of breath and screaming that a giant snake had eaten his 50-pound pigs. He complained that the snake had been raiding his pig farm regularly for months, but this time he was financially ruined.
With nothing better to do and feeling a spark of compassion for the farmer even in the sweltering heat, we agreed to look for the snake that was eating up his profits. Five of us climbed into an old Jeep and rode with the farmer to his home on the outskirts of town.
There were no trees in the area, just some three-foot cuny grass growing on the rolling hills that were nearly covered by limestone rocks. It was easy tracking the snake. As he wriggled along, his heavy body had mashed the grass flat. We followed his path for three miles from the Jeep, then left the vehicle when the trail headed up a rocky hillside. After several hundred yards, the trail disappeared into a hole about two feet in diameter, big enough for a man to crawl in, but not enough room to turn around.
My generous companions unanimously elected me to go down the hole and bring back the pig-eating snake. I wasn’t overly enthused about such an adventure, but I was curious to see the reptile and I finally accepted the dangerous mission. The farmer had brought along a homemade rope, which my companions tied to my foot so they could haul me up if the snake got hold of me in the dark hole. We didn’t have a flashlight, but I collected all the matches we had among us and started down the hole, squirming along on my belly and using my elbows for leverage.
The tunnel went down at a sharp angle and then turned upward, making it tough to move. After about 40 feet of narrow, uphill struggling, I came out into an opening as big as a living room. Two things quickly came to mind. My matches would barely burn, so I knew I was in a place short on oxygen. At the same time, I was almost overcome by a terrible smell. Some creature had had a bowel movement, probably many of them, right here in this God-forsaken dungeon.
I could hardly see in the pitch-black cavern. It must have been the kind of darkness the children of Israel experienced in Egypt, when you can reach out and touch it. I couldn’t hear anything breathing, but every now and then, I heard the sound of something heavy dragging around me. It seemed to be on all sides at the same time.
With the last flickering tongues of flame from my disappearing supply of matches, I could see the outline of a rock shelf about eight feet off the floor and three feet wide. When the shelf seemed to move, be it ever so slightly, I knew I had found my adversary.
On the ledge was a giant reticulated python. I couldn’t determine just how big he was, but he had to be tremendous. And the snake was aware of my presence. Snakes do not hear well, but they have a good sense of smell. They also use their infrared sensors, called pits, to detect the presence of anything near. The pits enable a snake to identify any creature that is warmer than the surrounding atmosphere. And me being a warm-blooded creature, I probably appeared as a solid infrared outline to the snake.
Fascinated by the huge animal, I stared into the gloom, finally spotting his head—a fearsome, 18-inch-wide combination of nose, pits, mouth and eyes. I looked him over as best I could in the dim light, but fearing my matches would soon run out and almost overcome by the terrible stench, I decided it was time to leave. Slowly I edged toward the cave exit where I dropped to my elbows and belly and squirmed back to daylight.
When I told my companions about the giant serpent, some were skeptical. But once they finally accepted my story, we agreed to return the following Sunday to remove the snake from his lair. We were certain that he would remain. His stomach was full of pigs and he wouldn’t need to eat again for days.
That week, one of my companions had the workers in his warehouse build a strong, portable cage from bamboo, complete with a sliding door at one end. The cage measured 12 feet long, 6 feet high and 6 feet wide. Two strong, round runners were fastened to the bottom as slides. We got some manila rope and a five-cell flashlight, and we were ready to continue our snake adventure.
Early on Sunday morning, we hitched two water buffalo to the cage and headed back to the snake’s den. The first plan was to have Freddy Fitzgerald, an American who was with us on the first trip, go into the hole with a flashlight and I would follow with a forked stick and the rope to put over the python’s head. But Freddy didn’t like the idea and immediately began walking back to town at a fast pace. The boarding house was six miles away, but it didn’t take him long to get there. I asked another man in our group to go in with the light, but he too declined. It was up to me again.
Before starting down the hole, I gave the men their instructions. When I yelled for them to pull, they were to tighten the rope slowly, then keep it taut like a fishing line. That was the only way to keep it secure around the snake’s head. I would then crawl out of the cave, and we would push the bamboo cage in front of the hole, passing the rope through the gate and out the back of the cage. I had to be out of the tunnel before they pulled out the snake, or I would be crushed in the narrow passageway, with that snake all over me.
I took the flashlight, the forked pole and rope, and began inching down the narrow tunnel toward the diabolical chamber that I had been so glad to leave a week ago. Upon reaching the big room, I found the snake still stretched out on the ledge. On the previous Sunday, the tiny light from my matches hadn’t given me much chance to really study the creature. But now, in the bright beam of my flashlight, I could inspect the animal. He was a giant, of that I was sure.
Using my 10-foot pole with the fork, I gently slipped the noose over his head. I backed toward the cave tunnel with the rope loose in my hands, and then yelled to signal my partners. But instead of slowly tightening the rope, they yanked as hard as they could and took off down the hill with their end of the rope. They were whooping and hollering encouragement to each other as they raced down the rocky hillside. Fortunately, the noose slipped off the snake’s head. Otherwise, it would have probably been curtains for me.
With the rope gone, I had no choice but to crawl back out the tunnel to retrieve it from my nervous helpers. Once out, I told my friends what I thought of them as they cowered around the cage. With my temper calmed a little, I took the rope and went back into the hole again, hoping that the snake hadn’t been upset by the goings-on and decided to escape out the tunnel.
Again, to my good fortune, the python was still on his ledge. I blinded the snake with the flashlight, then eased the noose around his throat. This time when I signaled, my helpers tightened the rope gradually, keeping it taut so it would not slip off again. I crawled backward down the passageway with my hands on the rope until I stood up outside.
We dragged the cage to the hole, but the buffalo were uncooperative. They smelled the snake and were obviously frightened. But we succeeded in getting the sliding door of the cage over the hole. We then drove some heavy stakes into the ground to hold it down and slipped the strong rope through the bamboo bars. Our tug of war pitted five grown men against one snake. We couldn’t budge it. Finally, we hitched the buffalo to the rope and after five long minutes of yelling and prodding, the beasts gradually inched the python toward the cave entrance. The buffalo team pulled the snake’s head all the way to the back of the cage. But that still left most of the reptile protruding outside the cage and well down into the tunnel. We cut some sharp sticks and began punching the python’s thick hide. It slowly responded, coiling the rest of his enormous body inside the cage. We slid the door shut, loosed the line and congratulated ourselves on our victory.
For the first time we had a chance to really examine our opponent. He was 27 feet long and more than a foot in diameter. We had no idea as to his exact weight, but found out later that he weighed 240 pounds.
We headed to town with our ground sled cage full of snake. When we paraded our catch down the main street, it was the biggest attraction since Magellan. We spread the word that the giant snake was for sale and before long, a Chinese carnival operator flew a chartered plane to Cebu. He paid 6,000 pecos for the python, which was ultimately seen by huge crowds all over the Far East.
After selling the snake, we pitched the biggest party anyone in that town had ever seen. Everybody was invited and everybody attended. The party cost us 1,000 pecos. We put the other 5,000 pecos in a trust at the local bank for the farmer who had lost his pigs.
A few days later I had to go to Thailand to trap monkeys for the polio research project. I didn’t return to Cebu for six years. No sooner had I landed and found myself a room, when a knock at the door surprised me. I opened the door and there stood the pig farmer. He was no longer broke. The trust had saved him, and he was now the wealthiest man in the community. It was a pleasure having dinner with him in his comfortable home the following evening. Of course, our conversation centered on the big snake that made us friends forever.
This article originally appeared in the January/February 1986 edition of Sporting Classics.