Avoiding the bathroom

Before I begin, I’d like to apologise if this blog post is a little... er... disjointed.
Or a touch confused.
Or just plain...  jittery.

You see I’m currently sitting hunched in front of my computer with my legs tightly crossed, jiggling. While half my brain ponders this blog post, the other half is quietly chanting, Sheldon-like,
‘I am the Master of my bladder...’
It’s not true of course. In any showdown, my gross bodily functions inevitably triumph.
So why don’t I just go and, er... relieve myself?

Because when I visit my toilet, I AM NOT ALONE.

No, the marbled tree snake has not moved back into my shower cubicle (actually I don’t even have a shower cubicle). The problem is smaller. But more numerous...

You see, dwelling within my toilet is a community of bubbling kassinas.
Now I know this probably won’t mean much to you.
It even sounds quite pleasant, doesn’t it? Drifts of tiny aquatic flowers maybe, garlanded with little silver bubbles?
Well you can forget that. Bubbling kassinas are frogs.
Little frogs; cute frogs; but FROGS!

Okay, I realise that when you live in the tropics, toilet-dwelling amphibians are humdrum and routine. But those are tree frogs. Those are frogs that hop about and clamber up the porcelain because it’s a cool place to chill. They aren’t aquatic frogs. They don’t come sculling in, underwater, from the dreadful lower reaches of the septic tank. They don’t circumnavigate the toilet bowl, in unhurried breaststroke – while you’re using it – and then dive deftly back down the outlet pipe.
Call me old fashioned, but I find that disconcerting.

Bubbling kassinas (Kassina senegalensis) are also known as running frogs (because they’re a bit anatomically-challenged). The critters trot about over much of sub-Saharan Africa but it’s still unclear whether they all belong to one big, happy family species.
Photo posted on Flickr by Vivi Bolin.

Look I’m not denying that bubbling kassinas are agreeable little frogs. Just 4 cm (1.6") long, they could have crept straight out of a Peanuts cartoon: their smiling, snub-nosed faces make up almost half their total being. They swim about wearing glossy wetsuits of yellow, cream or silver grey, flamboyantly adorned with black go-faster stripes. But most impressive of all are their massive eyes: burnished-gold with an inky black cat’s pupil.

Frog’s eyes, of course, don’t just look weird. Fitted out with rods and cones, they let the frog see in colour, but - unlike in a mammal's eye - the lens doesn’t flex to focus on objects at differing distances. Instead it trundles back and forth within the eyeball to adjust the focal length. Oh, and frogs’ eyes also aid in digestion. When a frog is scoffing down a bulky prey item, it retracts its eyeballs into its mouth cavity, giving the hapless victim an extra shove down the gullet.
Now that’s what I call gob smacking.

The skin cells of frogs are peppered with colourful chromatophores that can be corralled or dispersed within the cell to alter the frogs’ colour. One type, iridiophores, are silvery, reflecting light back through the other pigments to give the frog a vibrant ‘inner glow’. These kassinas are dressed for (left) the dark, chilly depths of the septic tank and (right) the warm, sunlit waters of the toilet bowl.

Sometimes I’m lulled into believing the toilet is ‘unoccupied’ only to find that the little beasts have crept up under the porcelain rim. When I press 'flush', they come whooshing down in a swirl of white-water, limbs akimbo like a granny in a waterslide. When I can, I fish the creatures out (NOT pleasant) and release them carefully into one of the water dishes I maintain (for no apparent reason) in the garden. But after repeated ‘rescue missions’, I began to wonder.
Was I translocating the same frog over and over?
Unwisely, I started photographing their back patterns...

Argh! There are hundreds of the creatures!

Kassina number 15. According to my frog book, bubbling kassinas hang out in temporary and permanent water bodies, including vleis, marshes, pans, ponds and dams. Please note the conspicuous absence of indoor plumbing. Is this an oversight or are my frogs eccentric?

The rains haven’t yet arrived this season, so the squatters in my bathroom are blessedly mute. Like most frogs, macho bubbling kassinas have two different croaks.
The first is a love song (a short, rising boip which you can listen to here) whose lyrics go: “I am WONDERFUL and I’m waiting here just for you” (okay, I can’t guarantee this is absolutely verbatim).
The other ditty, which has more of a punk rock feel, is sung to fellow choristers: “Piss off you mongrel, this is MY bloody podium!”

The problem with all this fine operatic communication is that the intended recipient may not be able to hear you above the racket. I mean when the rains come, there can be ten different species all bellowing out their serenades down by the water. But bubbling kassinas are wily. Firstly, they adhere to the early birds adage and begin calling in the late afternoon when everyone else is still abed. Secondly, they avoid the Idol's try-out scrum down at the poolside, secreting themselves in the shrubbery well back from the water. It’s out here, where it’s less noisy, that they rendezvous with potential lovers, and – if their song is sexy enough – then accompany their ladylove down to the water.

However, there’s a flaw in this plan. When one lusty kassina boips, his neighbours can’t resist doing it too, and while this creates a lovely rippling or bubbling effect (hence the frog’s name), it’s probably teeth-grindingly annoying to amorous gentlemen (yes, most frogs do have small teeth; some even have vomerine teeth that sprout from the roof of their mouth). In an effort to get a word in edgewise, male kassinas serenade antiphonally; that is, they carefully utter their boips in the space between the boips of their rivals. Begging meerkat pups use the same technique; in fact experiments show that adult meerkats bring more food to a speaker playing two pups begging antiphonally than to the same two begging simultaneously (I warned you I’d have trouble staying focussed tonight).

Now I don’t know what all this means for my effluent dwellers. Will the males position themselves around my lounge and kitchen, singing their hearts out from my bookshelves and stove? Will female kassinas come scratching at the windows like Cathy’s ghost? And will lovelorn couples then converge on my bathroom to indulge in hot amplexus in the toilet bowl? 
Hmm, something to look forward to I guess...

Female bubbling kassinas lay 100 to 500 eggs.  OH GOD!
Photo posted on Flickr by liesvanrompaey.

I was planning to tell you all about the kassinas’ ugly duckling tadpoles who look so similar to tiny fish that metamorphosis must come as a real shock to them. However, the prospect of a toilet bowl brimming with tadpoles (even spiffy goldfish-like ones) is too distressing to contemplate. Additionally, I couldn’t find a SINGLE image of the little creatures anywhere on the internet. I’ve resolved that when my resident kassinas do become parents, I’ll take a photo of their ankle-nibblers (come Hell or high water – oh yuk!) and post it – free for use – all over cyberspace.
 
Actually, the real reason I’m finishing up now is because I’m afraid I’m going succumb to major renal problems if I don’t IMMEDIATELY go and pollute my kassinas' home...

Hopping into housework

Today I'm doing housework.
Not momentous, you think?
Well you're quite wrong.

If cleanliness is next to godliness, I'm playing out-field for the atheists.
Being blessed with an astonishing tolerance for grime and clutter, and living alone, I'm happy to wallow in slovenliness. In truth, I simply don't notice the carpeting of dust, the haunted-house cobwebs billowing around the lights or the snowy drifts of dog fur under the sofa. It takes something unusual to make me stop and think, 'oh, I suppose I should clean up'.

Of course the most dreadful manifestation of this is the Unexpected Visitor (oh my God, oh my God...). But such ordeals are rare (thank Heaven) and my wake-up calls are usually more subtle. You know the sort of thing (well you probably don't, and if you do, it's best not to admit it): the computer refuses to type S and P because cat fur is sprouting from the keyboard, a procession of dung beetles trundles past on route to the kitchen bin, the dog starts licking random places on the floor, or a strange green fluid is seeping from the fridge.

Well today's wake-up call was a bit different.

It was uttered by a frog.
'A series of discordant croaks or squeaks', to quote my frog guide.
Not your usual call to dish mop, I admit.

But this is the call of the foam nest frog. To be precise, the foam nest frog that perches by day on the cupboard above my sink. Still don't see the problem? Then let me fill you in on the idiosyncrasies of foam nest frogs.

The Southern foam nest frog (Chiromantis xerampelina) is one of 15 species of foam nest frog which gallivant about in tropical Africa and South East Asia. This photo was snapped on a cool, rainy evening and features the same individual (my croaking sink-dweller) as the last two photos below (taken on a hot, sunny day).

These attractive little amphibians, with their big round eyes and sucker-like toes, suffer paranoia. Rightly or wrongly, they're convinced that every body of water is brimful with ghastly predators whose sole purpose in life is the annihilation of frogs' eggs. To avoid this rampant egg-consumption, foam nest frogs deposit their spawn in trees. Courting males find themselves a romantic spot with a waterside view - preferably a branch overhanging water – and then tell the world about it. If a lady frog gives their potential nursery the thumbs up, she'll secrete a gelatinous goo which the pair treadle into foam. It's into this confection of froth that the female lays her eggs. Additional gentlemen will help in the arduous whisking operation, surreptitiously fertilising some of the lady's eggs while they kick up a storm.




Southern foam nest frogs building the nursery.
Photo by Arno & Louise Meintjes.


The meringue-like nest hardens on the outside, forming a crust that protects the little embryos from harsh temperatures and drying out. After 4 to 6 days the young tadpoles wriggle down to the base of the nest, where the crust softens, dropping them - with a plop - into the water below.

So the frog sitting croaking above my kitchen sink, believes he's found the ideal nursery.

OK, I admit that my sink probably does qualify as 'permanent water'. Filled with a clutter of encrusted pots, half-empty coffee mugs and milk-rimmed cat bowls, it does provide an alluring mosaic of puddles and pools. And while I realise that it isn't every day one gets the opportunity to witness the miracle of amphibian procreation in one's own kitchen, the prospect of 1200 tadpoles (no exaggeration, according to my frog book) plopping down among my dirty dishes is more than I can face.

So today I'm doing housework.

Starting with the washing-up.



When they aren't loitering in my house, foam nest frogs sit in trees, exposed to the elements. To avoid heatstroke, they turn chalky white (to reflect heat) and secrete tiny droplets of sweat. Unlike other frogs, they don't pee, excreting nitrogen waste as uric acid (rather than ammonia or urea) in an almost water-free, white paste.



Foiled foam nest frog.

The reign of rain frogs

An unfortunate aspect of growing up is that we lose our early sense of wonder. We quickly learn to name things and pigeon-hole them, and take them for granted. The world loses its sparkle.

But now and again, we encounter something that defies our expectations, and encourages us to marvel again.
A few nights ago I came across just such a something creeping around my cats' food bowls. I don't know if a cat had put it there (contributing toward its upkeep?) or if it trundled in by itself, but I usually only see them after rain.

It was a frog. The moment you read that, a preconception forms in your mind. Frogs hop. Frogs hang out near water. And they start life swimming about as tadpoles.
Forget it! I'm talking rain frogs.

This bushveld rain frog (Breviceps adspersus) is about one inch long, but they can grow to an impressive two inches. There are 14 different species creeping about South Africa.

Rain frogs spend their lives in holes, and they're shaped to fit. Their stumpy little legs preclude even a hope of hopping (a sensible safety precaution in a burrow dweller). At night, rain frogs crouch at their burrow entrances, licking up any bug that wanders past. And when it rains, they'll even come creeping out – slowly and cryptically – to find their own true love.

When agitated, rain frogs puff themselves up until they're almost spherical, and some species ooze a distasteful, milky fluid that deters potential diners. Photo by Jens Reissig and borrowed from here.

Being so portly and short-legged has its draw-backs; it makes reproduction tricky. Normally, a male frog mounts the female and clasps her in his arms (called amplexus) while he fertilises the eggs she's laying. But with rain frogs it's the ole 'corgi-mating-with-a-collie' problem. So how does the male manage? Fortunately, female rain frogs have it sorted. The skin on their backs secretes an adhesive, so the male only has to scrabble into position once, and he's set. Literally. The bond between them is so tenacious that you can't pull them apart without tearing the male's skin. Only after the pair has dug a burrow together, and the female has laid her 20-40 eggs inside, does her skin secrete a solvent that releases the male. Pretty nifty, huh?

Rain fogs dig their burrows while in reverse. They back into the hole-to-be, slowly revolving, and scratch out the soil with a special horny 'tubercle' on the heels of their hind feet.

Along with their other bizarre characteristics, rain frogs have given up on the whole idea of tadpoles. Their eggs consist of a large whitish yolk coated in thick jelly-like goo. The little rain frogs grow up within the safety of the burrow, sustained entirely by their egg yolk and bathed in fluid from the melting jelly. Only when they're fully metamorphosed frogs, do they creep out to face the world.

A bad day? This cape rain frog (Breviceps gibbosus) isn't feeling grouchy (actually I can't vouch for that). Its flattened face and forward facing eyes give it close-up, stereoscopic vision; all the better for nabbing small bugs. Photo borrowed from here.

Triumph of the traumatised tadpoles

Today is a day for celebration.

My LAST tadpole graduated to froghood!

It's been a long time coming. And not everyone made it.

Out of the 200 mud-wrestling tadpoles I invited into my home, only around a quarter hopped off into the sunset. Floods, desiccation, live burial and serial killers all took their toll.

Poor photo of one of my fingernail-sized froglets (that's a chewed or severely clipped nail). Despite hours lying on my stomach peering at them, I'm still not sure of their species.

Firstly, torrential rain washed many an innocent tadpole over the side of their dish, and then there was the porcupine. Yes, I know porcupines don't eat tadpoles (actually, I don't know this – they seem to eat almost anything), but they are powerfully attracted to the scent of rotting fruit. And the edges of my froglet pool are liberally sprinkled with mouldering pears, to attract tiny fruit flies (for the delectation of tiny frogs). My dogs – while hysterically barking at the sniffing porcupine - overturned the tadpole dish. (Guess how long it takes to individually pick up 150 beached tadpoles; in the dark.) Then the porcupine, while diligently excavating a tunnel under the fence, shovelled all the earth into the tadpoles' bowl. I found 100 tadpoles cowering in the last tiny dribble of water.

Of course, the worst losses occurred at the beak of a vicious killer. A hadeda ibis, sprung one morning fishing in the bowl, was shockingly efficient at nabbing tadpoles. Ibises hunt by feel, groping about with their long sensitive bill, and this meant many victims later died from injuries.

A wicked serial tadpole-killer, the hadeda ibis (Bostrychia hagedash) is named for its ear-splitting cry. Admittedly these birds do sometimes holler HA-DE-DA but more often they just scream ARRRRRRRRR (usually from right behind you). The sound's so loud you can feel it thrum in your chest. Photo by Doug Harebottle and borrowed from here.

I have a horrible suspicion that many of my newly fledged frogs promptly ended up as dinner for the local fauna.

This small toad is an ominously regular visitor to my froglet pool.

Wet and froggy

It's raining heavily today and my house is full of frogs.

I'm typing to the accompaniment of numerous 'pings' - as drips fall into saucepans - and I'm hedged in on all sides by books rescued from the flood that's seeping under my front door. The frogs, however, are having a great time. I've counted four species so far.

Apart from general wetness, I'm feeling bad because last night's storm flooded my tadpole dish, washing away half the tadpoles. Secretly, I'm also a little relieved. You see, about 8 weeks ago, while walking the dogs, I came across a patch of muddy ooze filled with 1000s of squirming tadpoles. The rains have been poor this year with several weeks elapsing between each rain storm. This is bad news for the local frogs who depend on temporary pools to breed. All summer I've been stumbling across almost dried-up puddles filled with writhing tadpoles, which I surreptitiously transfer to deeper pools. It's all been useless, of course: when next I pass, there's no trace of water anywhere. The ants are making a killing.

The Tadpoles that Lived.

Anyway, on this occasion, I scooped a few hundred into my water bottle and - unable to find an alternative - stuck them in my birdbath. This act of altruism (bunny-hugging?? frog conservation??) has been costly. The little blighters nibble their way through two lettuces a week, require twice daily water changes and - once they find their feet, so to speak - must be caught and transferred to a dish embedded in the garden. I'm getting a bit sick of it. I don't even know what species they are (at least two); fingernail-sized frogs are mighty difficult to identify.

More easily dealt with are those that are currently hopping around my feet.

The plain grass frog (Ptychadena anchietae)

is less than 2 inches long but is the most amazing jumper I've ever seen. They cross the room in one bound, nonchalantly leaping high over my head. The pets, who normally ignore frogs, can't resist giving chase, so these little guys go flying all over the house, ricocheting off the walls and roof before ultimately disappearing out a window. The sharp-nosed grass frog (Ptychadena oxyrhynchus) – which is what I think some of my tadpoles are growing into – is listed in the Guinness Book of Records for the longest amphibian leap: in 1977  'Santjie', a resident of Kwa-Zulu Natal, hopped 10.3 metres.

Tropical plantanas (Xenopus muelleri)

are supposed to live permanently in water. They're certainly built for it, with eyes perched on top of their heads and huge webbed hind feet that leave them virtually unable to hop. Covered in poisonous slime, they squirm across my floor and die within 12 hours if I don't put them outside. I haven't seen them in previous years; I assume the poor rains have left them besieged at the river and they're now out searching for newly filled pans. My house must lie on an ancient, plantana migration route because they're all utterly determined to traverse my lounge room.

Red toad (Schismaderma carens).

This large toad is a permanent resident. Although he eagerly gulps mealworms each evening, our relationship has deteriorated considerably since 'Take your toad to work day'. Of all the idiot places he's chosen to snooze the day away (and he's picked some doozies: in the toe of my boot, in the cats' food bowl, inside the teapot), his biggest mistake has been my backpack. Nestled away inside, he inadvertently spent the morning with me in the field and then accompanied me on my weekly shopping trip to town. I only discovered him when retrieving my wallet at the supermarket checkout; much to the cashier's consternation.