BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS

Henry Oxley

Marty in 2019 the oldest tortoise in the world died. She was 344 and had been the pet of a Nigerian prince over 200 years ago. Alagba had two personal attendants and was thought to have healing powers. Giant tortoises rarely live to 200 years old, so Alagba was a strange miracle. The prince in question was Isan Okumoyede, and when he acquired Alagba she was allegedly already 100. Many suspect it cannot be the same Alagba, that the tortoise had been swapped out. Of course, the palace denies these claims.

This brought a smile to my face. Reading an article where someone accuses someone else of swapping out a tortoise reminded me of Roald Dahl’s Esio Trot, where an old man, infatuated with the woman downstairs, hears her worries about her tortoise’s size. And so, he repeatedly swaps out her tortoise with different sized tortoises till his apartment is completely full of small tortoises, medium tortoises and large tortoises. When reading this book as a small child I remembered thinking that if this story was about a dog her reaction would probably have been different from falling into his loving arms.

Seeing the videos of Jonathan (189) lumber around his massive pen made my heart bleed. The idea of ‘cuteness’ comes partly from pity. Seeing a kitten get stuck in a blanket and struggle to escape is cuter than seeing a lion devour a small gazelle. So seeing a big, slow tortoise was very adorable to me. Seeing images of Jonathan from over 100 years ago being claimed by the English governor of Saint Helena – who poses pompously for the photo while three downtrodden locals care lovingly for the “governor’s tortoise,” and Jonathan, not knowing any better, looks up inquisitively at the governor – also made me think I might want a tortoise. And when I saw Marty for the first time, I knew I wanted a tortoise.

There were about 20 of them. All huddled up in the cold of winter inside a shoebox. They were no older than a week, and no larger than a 50-pence piece. My only experience with tortoises before had been online images of Herman’s tortoises and giant tortoises; now I was seeing a Greek spur-thighed tortoise right in front of me. I then had to choose a tortoise. All the paperwork had already been completed. I chose Marty because he was the most inquisitive, coming up to the edge, clearly wondering who I was while the others enjoyed their breakfast. Looking after a tortoise isn’t about leaving them outside and hoping they make it through winter. You have to remember they are exotic animals. English weather doesn’t suit them. You need a UV light as well as a heat lamp, since they are cold blooded, and you can’t leave them outside overnight. You also have to pick weeds from local fields that are high in fibre and protein. I have been asked on multiple occasions what I was doing in my nearby green space, but it never normally goes further than whispers from a small child of “What’s that strange boy doing?” and the parents hastily walking past to spare themselves from embarrassment. I’d rather smile to myself about the interaction than have to explain the intricacies of looking after a tortoise to the local ramblers.

When you envision a tortoise owner you think of some old person who can’t walk a dog everyday and is a bit old fashioned, someone still obsessed with a colonial mindset of wanting something exotic for exotic’s sake. But this was not my reason at all. Tortoises are seen as cold and uncaring, but this is just not true. They do have nerves in their shell, meaning they like to be stroked. They also are cold-blooded, meaning they value the warmth a human can give them. They like close contact. This sort of relationship may seem purely functional from your perspective but after a while they get used to it and seem to enjoy it in a different way.

Learning to care for a tortoise means you have a reason to get up, and seeing a small creature peering up at you when you walk in the room, only to realise you mean food and to dart to his food drop-off point, is very endearing. The weird behaviours put a smile on my face. Having him defend his small 3x1 metre patch of land from any change, whether it be planting a new sow-thistle or hydrating it with water, he will always wake up and come out ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ style to peer at me disapprovingly. Tortoises can’t smile. They don’t whine. The only way they can show their emotions is hissing. Although Marty has never hissed at me, you learn to know your pet a lot better. It’s nigh-on impossible for an outsider to tell what he wants. It’s like learning a secret language; it’s an exclusive club, and it makes your strange cross-species relationship stronger.

In the summer he can escape to the wilderness, that being a slightly larger enclosure outside. He clearly loves the outdoors, and it’s satisfying to see the natural order of things take place. The outside is where he belongs Although not as expansive as an Athens shrubbery or a Galapagos volcano, it’s still nice to see him in his element.

In following summers, I’d hope to see him outside, not enclosed by anything other than my garden walls. But, of course, this can never happen. Giving Marty infinite space would most likely not end well. In the past many have seen tortoises to be invisible, living infinitely, with titanium defences impenetrable for any predators. Sadly, this is not the case. The only part of this stereotype is that they live for decades. I can imagine myself at 70 retiring to my land, watching Marty lumber over a large expanse of corn fields, American dream style. Realistically, I believe I don’t know who will die first, me or Marty. I don’t know how I feel about that thought. It seems so far off so that it doesn’t matter. After some consideration, I realise that the stereotype of old tortoise owners might very well apply to me in 60 years. That’s a scary thought: fulfilling a role you purposely made an effort to avoid. Even so, I’ll still have Marty.