“In real life, the tortoise loses.”

                                         Helen  Alexander, President of the CBI 

                                                                                  

The tortoise was depressed. His bony carapace, embossed tawny and black was dust dull, his snake head hung limp between the stumpy squamous legs and his lipless mouth drooped in a thin arc of unhappiness. Sadly he told his troubles to the black-capped Capuchin monkeys. “There’s this clever lady,” he said, “who claims that in the real world the proud opinionated hare always wins the race. All my long life I have taken comfort and confidence from Aesop’s wonderful story, but now my silly little ambition one day to achieve the same is quite destroyed.” He sniffed and a great bronze tear ran down his wrinkled cheek. “And the hare has challenged me to a race and I don’t know what to do, except to creep away and hide my shame until Death releases me from my vale of tears.”

The Capuchins, who had moved away into a chattering huddle, whooped excitedly and turned back to the tortoise. “We have a plan.” they said. “The race track slopes down the forest path towards the wild flower meadow. We shall make you a velocipede and launch you into an honourable triumph.” The tortoise frowned. “Would that not be cheating?” he asked. “No, of course not.” the capuchins replied. “The challenge is to be first across the line. There’s nothing about the method of propulsion.” The tortoise sighed. “Alright then, I shall accept the hare’s invitation to make a fool of myself.”

For days the capuchins ran here and there gathering together bits of string, old elastic bands, a pair of discarded roller skates,and the oval top of an abandoned coffee table. A cohort of mice found a purple leather harness tossed out of a passing pram and with whiskers quivering and tails lashing dragged it to the Capuchins’ bosky workshop. From dawn to dusk there was a hammering of smooth stone on rock anda sawing of beaver teeth on old table top. The whole population of the Safari Park seemed to be in attendance - even the two toed sloth made a day’s expedition from his branch to the foot of his tree to admire the ingenuity of the engineers. Only the hare and his sycophantic band of rabbits kept themselves apart, smirking and lazing in the morning sun.

Race Day came and the hare sprawled under a tree beside the track, his eyelids drooping against the dappled light. “Competitors! One minute please.” The fussy meerkat sniffed the air and peered back up the path where he thought he heard a growing commotion. The hare strolled to the line, leaned against a boulder and closed his eyes again. The distant noise grew louder and, as the meerkat fired his starting pistol, down the hill came the tortoise. Strapped by the purple harness onto the tray mounted on the roller skate wheels and propelled by a dozen Capuchins, he shot across the line past the incredulous hare and shed his zoological combustion engine in a shower of small pebbles. Enveloped now in a great cloud of dust, he disappeared towards the finishing post. The shocked hare gave up the unequal struggle and lolloped off into the meadow - and oblivion. 

“In real life,” said a wise Capuchin, “with intelligent combination and fraternal cooperation, the tortoise may always win.”

    Naomi