The wounds had begun to go septic and we were now certain the lion could never have removed the quill fragments himself. Long-acting antibiotics were then administered and a few of his other war wounds were also treated while we had the opportunity. Hang-lip was not in good physical condition, so he was given a vitamin booster injection which would also help bolster his immune system and facilitate the healing process.
While this was all going on, a handful of shareholders who were in the vicinity at the time became actively involved. Everyone assisted by strategically parking their vehicles as a barrier between the lion we were working on and the rest of the pride, which was occupied with feeding on the impala carcasses. The sound of contented lions feeding was interrupted only occasionally by loud guttural growls, as one or two greedily tried to get a bigger piece of the action and were cuffed back into line.
We didn’t really consider cosmetic surgery in the form of a ‘lip lift’. At his stage of life we thought it unnecessary as his appeal to the females of his species had little to do with his physical beauty. Seriously, though, there are actually very clear limits as to the extent we are able to interfere with nature in an open system such as that of which Olifants is now an integral part. So, no matter how compassionate the motivation, even the quill removal was a marginal call and a little ‘nipping and tucking’ would have been taking the concession way outside acceptable limits.
Zoletil, the immobilising drug of choice, has no antidote so needs to be processed through the animal’s liver, taking up to five hours. We kept tabs on the lion until he had recovered completely from the tranquilliser, bearing in mind that even large predators are particularly vulnerable while in a groggy state. The unnatural movements and staggering gait can trigger an aggressive and opportunistic response from other lions, or cause the animal to fall awkwardly and injure itself.
From the time of the radio call from Neil that morning to Gerrit’s plane taking off back to Phalaborwa, less than three hours elapsed. Some of this time was spent making the lion comfortable while he slowly recovered. Strong black coffee and homemade rusks were sampled while we all shared some good-natured chat. There is always a moment for reflection and great sense of relief when an operation like this goes smoothly and once we knew we had given a magnificent old monarch a helping hand, it was that much more rewarding.
The next day, Hang-lip had reason to really drop his lip! Four younger males moved into the area looking for a brawl. Although we were monitoring the situation, truth be told, our two dominant males were getting a little long in the tooth and we weren’t sure how much longer they could defend their territory. Whatever the outcome might be, though, it would be better than a slow death from starvation and septicaemia.
Over a year has passed since this incident and both these lions are still very much in the picture as pride males. Recently, however, in response to pressure from two new males from the east, ‘Hang Lip’ and his pride crossed the river onto Olifants North and appear to have taken up permanent residence there. Discretion being the better part of valour proved to be the right option, because a little while later, a further three males moved in, increasing the coalition to a formidable five lions.
So, Hang-lip retained his pride, in more ways than one.
Elephants Don’t Like Joggers
August 2004
The influx of elephant into our reserve meant that we needed to be extra vigilant due to the associated dangers. The most significant policy change was that shareholders were no longer allowed to walk on the reserve – and this included the former wilderness area originally designated for this purpose. This has since been made into one of the most beautiful drives on Olifants, known as Pel’s Loop.
As far as a ‘day in the life of a ranger’ goes, it has been a relatively uneventful period, punctuated with meetings and other routine but necessary tasks. This gave me the chance to dig into the archives to come up with a story that will hopefully convey a relevant message against becoming complacent with our new and ever-increasing resident elephant population. I would rather sound like a stuck record on the walking issue, than have to record a sticky end.
In a previous newsletter, I had listed a number of tips for viewing elephant, which mainly focused on how best to approach them, and how to take evasive action if necessary when viewing from a vehicle. What to do to avoid them or how to take evasive action when meeting elephant on foot was not covered. The following story may provide a practical hint or two.
About a year ago, the numbers of elephant on the reserve were less than half of what they are now. Despite this more comfortable and relatively low density, there was always the chance of unexpectedly bumping into them, which though not usually a problem, could on occasion become one. One afternoon I was on the return leg from a fairly long but interesting run on neighbouring Dinidza. I always enjoyed following the hippo path along the beautiful riverine section. On my way back, I decided to go home via the Hide Dam pump on the riverbank near the clubhouse. The pump had been playing up for a while and I wanted to check on it.
Approaching the beehive-shaped stone cairn that protects one of the air valves on the main pipeline, I could hear the faint hiss of air pressure escaping.
‘Great,’ I thought. ‘It’s working.’ And on I ran.
As I headed up the floodplain loop road approaching a familiar sjambok pod tree I run past almost every day, I heard the shrill trumpeting of an elephant behind me. Looking back over my shoulder in the direction of the river, I saw a young elephant bull about 100 metres away, standing facing me, his trunk up and ears out. Having picked up my scent, he was making it obvious he wasn’t happy with the sweaty human odour that filled his trunk. He was shaking his head and trunk vigorously as if trying to get rid of the smell – not that I could blame him: after a ten-kilometre run in the bushveld heat, I could barely tolerate my own odour.
I judged the distance from where I was to where he was standing as being greater than the distance to the relative safety of the tree line. This meant there was a good chance I would make it, if I cut the corner in the road and sprinted across the flood plain. So, I decided to go for it. At this point the little troublemaker that had sighted me and cried wolf was joined by eight other elephant which seemed to materialise out of nowhere. Encouraged by their support, and seeing my rear end disappearing away from him at a rate of knots no doubt helped boost his confidence to lead the charge.
Having made it safely across the open floodplain to the trees, I selected a tall slender leadwood. ‘Selected’ in this instance could be more accurately interpreted as ‘the nearest tree I could find’! The branch jutting out that I needed to grab onto in order to haul myself up into the tree required a little jump on my part. This was asking a lot of a pair of legs that had just done a fair run topped off with an adrenalin-charged sprint. The first feeble attempt showed I was about six inches short, reminiscent of those nightmares when you need to run, but cannot lift your legs. Another shrill trumpet, now getting too close for comfort, was all the encouragement my adrenal gland needed, and the six-inch deficit suddenly evaporated.
I hauled myself up into the tree, then wriggled upwards to the topmost branches where I quietly hugged the trunk and pretended I was part of the environment.
With blue shorts, white running shoes, cream T-shirt, pink legs and arms, well, I must have blended right in, or they mistook me for a giant lilac-breasted roller, because at that point, without slowing down, two elephant ran past right underneath me, one on either side of the tree. I can vividly recall every detail of the cracked pattern of the skin on their backs and remember how this contrasted with the relative smoothness of the tops of their heads.
I also remember thinking that I must get high enough to stay out of reach of their trunks. Looking back now at that tree, it is hardly what I would describe as a representative of the species, as by giving it a good shove, I’m sure a determined elephant would have been able to push it down. Despite this, instinctively climbing the
tree was the only option at the time, and, in hindsight, appears to have been the right option in any event. The height gained allowed my scent to be carried away above the elephant, this being doubly fortunate because it was blowing in their direction. Furthermore, I suspect, like many other wild animals, they’re just not inclined to look up, especially to locate human beings. Keeping still and pressing up against the main trunk, despite my ‘camouflage’, also helped, I’m sure.
A hundred metres or so past me, they slowed down and stopped, standing dead quiet, trunks in the air sniffing for a trace of the elusive smelly man. A couple of minutes later they appeared to settle down completely and a few of them started feeding.
Colleagues Ron and Cindy Hopkins, having heard the trumpeting from their house, which overlooks the floodplain, decided to take their guests out to view the elephant. They had no idea the elephant were chasing me. Ron drove slowly along the road in the direction of the trumpeting, and slowly approached my position. I could see him and the other occupants peering into the bush at eye level looking for signs of the elephant.
‘Oi!’ I shouted.
Although they heard me, they didn’t see me until the second ‘Oi!’ and the frantic waving of a white sock.
No, I am not suggesting that a white sock is a de rigueur part of one’s bush kit, it’s just that I always carried one, it being used to wipe the sweat off my forehead when I’m running. This eventually caught their attention and it didn’t take Ranger Ron in his rugged Rover too long to effect the rescue. We then drove up the road to where the elephant were milling around. In total contrast to the pandemonium earlier, they appeared totally relaxed when approached and viewed from the vehicle.
Things have changed since then, and I have had to adapt my route in order to minimise the danger that the increased elephant numbers pose. The circuit I run now is repetitive and relatively boring, but at least I have now identified a few easy-to-climb, sturdy trees, at reasonably regular strategic intervals.
The new rule is simple … ‘You must be able to climb before you can run!’
White Lions
1983 – 1993
When Chris McBride ‘discovered’ white lions on his property, it prompted him to write The White Lions of Timbavati. This not only put the Timbavati Private Nature Reserve on the map, it also exposed to the world what many believed to be a unique, previously unrecorded phenomenon. People are generally fascinated with lions, so when white ones were discovered in the wild, it stimulated far more attention than would have a white blesbuck, for example. Also I suspect that this was deemed more sensational or newsworthy by the media, who perpetuated the awareness and perceived plight of these lions.
The white lions of the Timbavati stole the limelight and fears were raised about the future of these lions in the wild. In turn, this captured even wider public interest and soon they became the focus of attention in conservation circles. For a while, they were accorded the same priority status as if a new species had been discovered.
Every now and again, it appears that nature will ‘test the water’ by throwing out a wild card to see how it copes. This pale, almost white colour is not exclusive to lions, the same mutation occurs in numerous other mammal species. White lions are not albinos, they’re the consequence of what is known as a ‘chinchilla mutation’ occurring as a result of a recessive gene. It appears that among wild lions in particular, the occurrence of this mutation is confined to Southern Africa, more specifically the Timbavati area. White lions have also been popping up in the Tshokwane area of the Kruger National Park for years. In their case, nobody made a fuss about them, or tried to capitalise on the ‘freak show’. Ironically, the hype concerning the threat to their survival in the wild, and the motivation for the conservation of white lions, has been of more benefit to man and his greed than to the lions themselves.
During the nearly ten years I spent in the Timbavati, I was fortunate enough to have spent days on end in the company of these famous lions in the wild. By recording the observations made on a particular white lion within the pride, I was able to compile some interesting material culminating in an unpublished paper.
This was submitted as one of my projects when I studied Nature Conservation through correspondence. Although I received a satisfying pass, the contents of this paper are too detailed (and too ‘dry’) for inclusion here, but some points may be pertinent to the ongoing controversy surrounding these animals. So, I invite you to join me while we take a brief look at some aspects of this fascinating animal’s life.
The white lioness I studied was born under a thick overhang of wild date palms Phoenix reclinata on the banks of the Sohebele River in 1982, and to the best of my knowledge there were no other white lions in the Timbavati at the time. The rest of the pride, including her sister, were all ‘normal’ tawny-coloured lions, as were the two recessive gene-carrying pride males known as Rex and Adonis, who were both beautiful, black-maned males. Two years later, a white male cub was born to the same pride, and again, both his brother and sister were ‘normal’. As is often the case with young male lions, they were nudged out of the reserve when they were a little over two years old. They were never seen again. Rumours and speculation all pointed to them having been shot by bow hunters from overseas.
A couple of years later, Rex and Adonis were shot on the farm ‘Goedehoop’ (Good Hope) situated north of Motswari in the Umbabat Nature Reserve. The event was catalytic in the fragmentation of the white pride. This property proved to be anything but ‘Good Hope’ for the two males, as to add insult to injury, the following morning we found Adonis at ‘Moenie Jag’ crossing on the Sohebele River. This crossing got its name from an old signboard that dated back to the early fifties which used to read ‘Moenie jag nie asseblief’ (Please don’t hunt). How ironic!
The cowardly man or men responsible for wounding Adonis lacked the courage to follow him and finish what they had started. They also failed to report the incident to anyone. Sadly, it didn’t end there, as I will now explain.
The rangers from Motswari were always on the lookout for lion spoor. It wasn’t unusual for them to find fresh spoor and follow it until the lions were located. The guests loved this and the rangers thrived on the challenge. This time, however, when the fresh tracks of a large male were found, all was not as it seemed – there was something wrong. It was apparent from the drag marks and associated blood spatter that these tracks were made by an animal that was seriously injured. Our immediate thoughts were that a territorial dispute had ensued resulting in an injury from fighting between males. A short while later a low guttural growl emanated from a thick stand of wild date palm that grew in the middle of the sandy dry river bed, indicating we had located the injured lion.
When the lion got up to move away across the open sand, we could see it was Adonis and he was dragging his back leg. He was immobilised soon after. Upon closer examination we found that his hip had been shattered by a bullet from a .375 Magnum and that the slug was deeply embedded in his leg. The prognosis was dreadful, there was nothing that could be done … and so the white-gene-carrying pride male was euthanased.
In November 1985, the white lion and her sister, now well into their third year, came into oestrus simultaneously. For almost two weeks they were observed on the farm Sumatra, mating with two new males who had recently moved in from the Kruger National Park. Interestingly, most of the courtship took place less than half a kilometre from where the two sisters were born nearly three years previously. Three-and-a-half months later, seven tawny cubs were born, three to the white lioness and four to her tawny sister. A month later six cubs were observed, one having died of an unknown cause. All six remaining cubs survived to adulthood.
One day I saw something rather unusual, which was thought to be inconsistent with the behaviour of these social animals. The white lion and her sister had killed a large giraffe cow, clearly more than they and their four-month-old cubs could utilise, yet when the pride called from approximately 500 metres away,
neither lioness answered. The pride moved on, blissfully unaware of all that meat so close by.
By the next day, however, they had found the kill as the wind must have changed and drifted the scent onto them, or they might have been vulture watching. I suspect that the two females kept quiet the previous day because they were instinctively concerned about the safety of their cubs, and didn’t want to expose them to the risks associated with a feeding frenzy. Not too long after this, these same cubs would be catalytic in an incredible display of lion behaviour never recorded before. In defiance of all we understand about lions, I was to witness what could only be described as a unique phenomenon.
If I was asked today what the chances were of a wild lion pride accepting an orphaned wild lion cub from another area, my answer would be, ‘no chance’. It’s not like bringing home a new puppy and introducing it to the other dogs. Wild predators, particularly lions, have established social structures and will not tolerate outsiders and interlopers. Therefore, orphaned lions are placed in zoos or similar protective sanctuaries for the rest of their days, or they are put down, and that’s that; there is no alternative as far as I’m concerned. With regard to small cubs, the same rule applies: if they were not immediately torn to pieces, they would be ostracised and then die a slow death by starvation. Either way, placing an orphan lion cub among strange lions is a death sentence. Over the years I had seen too many stray lions dealt with this way to believe there was any other possible outcome. So, when the warden of the Timbavati asked if he could dump a young lion on my doorstep, my reply was initially negative. Of course, as he began giving me details on this particular lion, and that every alternative except a bullet had been exhausted, I weakened, thinking there may be a glimmer of hope, albeit a glimmer of minuscule proportions.
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