Mhudi

by Sol T Plaatje

  ‘Incredible,’ I thought. ‘It’s 2006, not 1906; this sounds too good to be true.’ But, knowing Mark, any doubts I may have had were quickly converted to optimistic expectation. So, filled with anticipation, we prepared our backpacks. My former scoutmaster would have been really proud of me.

  I had never been into these mountains before, and was really looking forward to catching a glimpse of the wildlife, particularly of their legendary kudu bulls. These magnificent antelope share these remote hills and valleys with a number of other interesting animals. The larger mammals included mountain reedbuck, leopard, brown hyaena, aardwolf, grey rhebuck, eland, caracal, black-backed jackal, bushbuck, common duiker, oribi, baboons, bushpigs and a small herd of wild horses descended from gold prospectors’ horses deserted a century ago. Speaking to one of the local community elders in the Bourke’s Luck area, he told me that when he was a child there were still a few rock hyraxes to be found in the hills but now there were none.

  I asked him if they used to hunt them and he replied that indeed they did, but with very limited success. He recalled that when he was a youth, his father had already noticed a steady decline of these creatures, and he was convinced they had simply moved away to another area. I doubt that over-hunting was the cause of the hyrax’s demise. I suspect that a virus, possibly carried in by the early prospectors and the plethora of domestic stock they brought with them, may have been responsible for the steady decline of this species in that area.

  The inaccessibility and steep, rugged terrain meant that few, if any, people have made the effort to explore the area in recent times. This was apparent from the narrow game paths that were made exclusively by the endemic wildlife, so it was quite evident from what Mark had said earlier, that some of the local wildlife had never seen a human being.

  The bird life was rich and varied, ranging from numerous open grassland species to thick forest dwellers. We also spotted a good number of small- to medium-sized raptors, including a pair of peregrine falcons, which we watched for a while. What masters of the air – it was no wonder, I thought, that every falconer I know covets these magnificent birds.

  There wasn’t a sign of recent human activity. There were no footpaths, roads or erosion dongas from abuse by domestic stock. Occasionally we’d come across overgrown and weathered shale piles, alongside shallow indentations or tunnels, indicating where somebody’s hopeful digging for gold took place in the late 1800s. Regardless of Mother Nature’s determined reclamation efforts, ruins of some of the more solidly built stone dwellings still stand as silent monuments to man’s one-time presence. If you know what to look for when scratching around among the old ruins, evidence of the day-to-day mining activities and the methods used is clearly evident from the rusted bits and pieces of worn-out hand tools they left behind. Much more lies buried around these sites, and a metal detector would no doubt unearth all manner of interesting things. As desperately curious as I am, however, I found myself torn between leaving these things be and digging deeper for answers.

  Evidently, baboons are the main culprits when it comes to the destruction of the old dry stone wall dwellings. In their search for scorpions and other insects, they will inadvertently demolish the stonework, often exposing hidden nooks and crannies and revealing interesting artefacts. Mark told me he once found an old kettle filled with Martini Henry bullets this way. One cannot but wonder if the owner struck it rich and just didn’t bother to return, or perhaps he suffered some mishap, and was unable to go back for his bullets – but if so, why didn’t he tell someone where they were? We’ll never know, but the more we scratched around, particularly among the ruins of these old dwellings, the more poignant the relics we uncovered. Almost everything we found was a tangible reminder that the life of a gold prospector must have been extremely hard, at best a ‘bare necessities’ existence.

  Some islands of evergreen bush that rose up out of the grass-covered slopes with dense thickets of prominent trees, usually large wild fig, milkberry or jackalberry, were used as cemeteries. Stone mounds marked most of the graves, as the headstones or wooden crosses that may have been placed there were long gone. We noticed that these cool and peaceful groves also made good resting places for living creatures.

  Horn scrapings and scattered piles of droppings deposited by kudu and bushbuck indicated that these animals spent a considerable amount of time confidently concealed in the seclusion of these shady refuges. After a quick brew and a rusk, we decided to get going, as we still had a long way to go before we reached our overnight campsite.

  The variety of habitat types we moved through ranged from acacia thornveld dotted with a variety of aloes, and stunted bush willows in the lower areas, to temperate grass-covered hillsides higher up. As we began climbing, we noticed more typical mountain vegetation like bushman’s tea, mountain syringas, proteas and kiepersols as well as the odd patch of bracken, which began to dominate the landscape. In the protected valleys and north-facing lees, beautiful dense mini-forests, with a wide variety of indigenous evergreen trees, completed the patchwork mosaic that comprised the mountain landscape. The trees making up these thickets, to mention but a few of the most prominent species, are milkwoods, wild olives, ashes, boerbeans, coral trees and wild figs.

  The steeply sloping hillsides led us down to valleys characterised by dense forest growth that completely shrouded the small streams that flowed through, which at that time of year still boasted a modest flow of gin-clear, cool water. The tree canopy was so dense that you were able to hear the water tumbling over the boulder-strewn stream beds long before you saw it. Dappled sunlight squeezed through the crown here and there, and trees competing for light grew straight and tall in an effort to reach a place in the sun.

  Magnificent specimens of yellowwood, stinkwood and ironwood trees were still to be found here. On the verges and side slopes, enormous wild strangler fig trees grew amidst vines, creepers and other dense undergrowth, which made the going difficult in places. At times we were forced to crawl on our hands and knees, which was particularly difficult because our backpacks kept on hanging up. It was then that we decided to take the relatively easier route, the stream bed itself. Boulder-hopping on slime-free rocks was a lot easier than wrestling with vines and roots and as a result we made good progress up the valley. The gurgling water and quiet footfalls of our rubber-soled hiking boots on the rocks allowed us to move as quietly as shadows.

  From the amount of fresh tracks and droppings on the banks of the stream, it was evident that animals were utilising the water course regularly and it appeared that they were dependent on it. During winter, I suspect this may be their only source of drinking water, as the next water to be found would probably be over the mountain in the next valley. Except for the birds and the gurgle of the stream, it was quiet. We had been making good progress when Mark, who had moved a few metres ahead of me, stopped, and waited for me to catch up.

  ‘Feel this,’ he said, holding out his closed fist, which he then opened. The kudu droppings I felt in his hand were still warm!

  I looked around, knowing that they couldn’t be far, but even though I strained my eyes searching the shadows, I didn’t see any sign of them, and so with renewed concentration, we continued. Hardly had we hopped over a couple of boulders when just ten metres in front of us, three huge grey ghosts exploded into life. Small branches and twigs snapped as they broke cover and clambered up the steep bank, disappearing as quickly as they had appeared, leaving me with an indelible image of their enormous lyre-shaped horns thrown back over their rumps as they scythed through the bush. I couldn’t believe it … we’d just been up close and personal with some of the legendary kudu bulls of that region.

  I eventually managed to close my mouth, but was still shaking from the adrenalin. We slid the load off our backs and sat down on the smooth water-worn dolerite boulders, chatting excitedly, knowing we had been privy to an extraordinary experience. After a long, cool drink from the stream, and somewhat calmer, we shouldered our back
packs again and carried on upstream.

  Kudu are widespread and relatively common in South Africa, but for a free-ranging kudu bull to reach the size that some of them do in these mountains, requires good genes and exceptional survival skills. The enigmatic qualities and highly elusive nature which earned them their reputation have no doubt resulted from an adaptive response to running the gauntlet of relentless hunting over the years. These attributes have been honed to such a degree that, in this context, they cannot be compared to their game reserve and flatland cousins.

  These ‘highland kudu’ are in a league of their own, and this region can justifiably claim to produce some of the most magnificent and wary kudu in Africa.

  Back to bushpigs … besides the black-backed jackal, baboons and to a lesser degree, caracal, there is one other species that continues to give farmers ‘the finger’, and that is the bushpig. Like the kudu in the mountains around Lydenburg, they have been hunted relentlessly, the one difference being that unlike the kudu, bushpig was declared a problem animal or vermin. Until recently they could be shot on sight and hunted using any means possible and there was no closed season on bushpigs. Their response? They became more wily and reclusive, and I am convinced that this is now inherent in their genetic code.

  Bushpigs in this region are almost exclusively nocturnal, they retreat to the thickest cover they can find to lie up in during the day and are usually in position before sunrise. They lie in a circle, snouts outward, so that nothing and no one gets close unannounced. It is common knowledge among hunters in the area that to try and stalk bushpig on foot in this environment is an exercise in futility. So when my friend and I walked into a sounder of three bushpigs, not 20 minutes after seeing the kudu, even though we had the advantage of the stream completely muffling our approach, we just couldn’t believe our luck.

  Later that afternoon we managed to find a patch of relatively level ground where we put up the tent. Gathering enough wood for the night, we then lit a fire and started to get the food on the go. To have plenty of wood at hand is essential, as the nights up in these mountains can get very cold. That night, however, it rained on and off right through to dawn, and being in a good tent with good food and comfortable clothes made all the difference. Lying snug in my sleeping bag with the rain pelting down on the flysheet, sipping a hot mug of percolated coffee, I couldn’t help thinking about those early prospectors and the hardship they must have endured. Nevertheless, I didn’t allow either these pensive moments, or the rain trying its damnedest, to put a dampener on such a wonderful day. The next morning was cool and overcast, but Mark was confident it would burn off by mid-morning. After a quick breakfast, we packed up and carried on up the valley, as there was still quite a way to go.

  I soon realised we’d need to turn back short of the dense forest at the base of the mountain. I was disappointed at this, even though Mark assured me that the trees there were not much bigger than those we had already seen. I’d heard that the cycads and tree ferns that grew there were spectacular, and due to their inaccessibility, huge specimens still clung to the steep slopes in defiance of man’s attempts at removal. Thousands of these ancient plants elsewhere have not been so fortunate and many are still being dug out and illegally removed from the more accessible areas of the Drakensberg.

  During our descent, we were filled with anticipation each time we approached an interesting-looking thicket. But the word was out, every spiral-horned grey ghost in the valley knew we were there, leaving us with only yesterday’s memories of them. There was no time to revisit the old ruins either. As we climbed out of the valley, the mountain slope opened up, affording us a commanding but distant view of the Ohrigstad/Lydenburg road. Through my binoculars I could see cars making their way along the thin black ribbon that snaked through green valleys whose slopes were peppered with the rusty autumn colours of mountain syringas. Were they heading for the lowveld … Olifants perhaps? I couldn’t help wondering if the cars’ occupants even suspected what a wildlife paradise and rich history lay largely undisturbed in these hills and valleys. Perhaps our big game experiences could start in these mountains, as did Martin Botha’s of lodge 81, who saw a leopard in his headlights near Ohrigstad recently.

  Although the two days I’d spent in that remote valley were filled with so much, I wanted more. Sensing my mood, Mark promised to organise a longer trip including our wives. What a great idea, I thought, there would be so much more to be had sharing this with Meagan … but, sadly, time flew and before we could get around to doing a second trip, Mark had left the area and moved down to his farm near the Kei River mouth in the Eastern Cape.

  When next you’re en route to Olifants, knowing there are secrets hidden in these valleys, perhaps you will give them more than a casual glance, and perhaps the kudu will be giving you more than a casual glance, too. After all, their continued safety and natural happiness is largely dependent on man’s willingness to leave well alone.

  A Stressful Time of Year

  Based on an October 2002 newsletter

  Have you ever witnessed the social interplay between wild dog pups and their sitter? When the rest of the pack leaves the den to go hunting, it is usually the alpha female that is saddled with the unenviable task of puppy sitting. The pups appear to have inexhaustible energy and are also mischievous by nature. This, combined with their natural curiosity, causes them to constantly wander off and explore. It is at these times that they are extremely vulnerable to predation and I suspect that were it not for the puppy sitters, we would probably not see any wild dogs at all.

  The task of running around constantly chasing these happy wanderers back to the safe perimeter of the den is not an easy one. The little reprobates are hell-bent on going where they shouldn’t. I often wonder if border collies are such fantastic sheep herders because they have the same coded-in desire to keep pups (and sheep) in the safety of a den? Not only do wild dog pups wander off endlessly, they bite playfully at the sitter’s hocks and being almost always hungry, jump up and nip painfully at her nose and mouth, demanding food. Those puppy teeth may be small, but they are as sharp as needles, just like a genet’s. I’m sure you will agree this can test even the strongest resolve.

  Wild dog pups are not the only creatures that need herding for their own protection. The following shows that desperate times call for desperate measures.

  Every year, from August to October, the natural order is stress. The last couple of months leading up to early November rains and hopefully the start of the rainy season, are always the most stressful for our animals and their custodians. As the grass gets denuded under the relentless mouths and hooves of the herbivore biomass, the bulk grazers, particularly buffalo, will wander great distances in search of food regardless and unaware of the dangers that moving off the reserve poses. This search for ‘greener grass’ exposes them to the dangers of poachers’ snares and unscrupulous hunters who concentrate their efforts in the area north of the river, a favourite winter feeding ground for our resident herd of buffalo.

  Another scourge that threatens our wild buffalo herds and ultimately our responsibility to contain foot-and-mouth disease, are the fly-by-night buffalo breeding projects that have popped up all over the lowveld. A few of these projects illegally ‘recruit’ wild buffalo, absorbing them into their breeding programmes. The animals they can’t use, like adult bulls, are hunted by trophy hunters, and the younger bulls are used for meat. One such breeding project on our boundary was suspected of supplementing its numbers in this way. In one season, a herd of over 40 buffalo just disappeared. This herd had a particular cow with unique horns. She was subsequently seen and photographed on the other side of the fence inside this buffalo breeder’s property. This proved beyond doubt that this practice was not only rife, but that it was carried out with blatant and total disregard for veterinary law, let alone civil law, and was tantamount to rustling!

  In another instance, a breeder to the north of our reserve laid his fence down and when 35 buffalo walk
ed into his property, lifted the fence up again behind them, as simple as that. Thankfully, new laws and stricter control measures have since been implemented, all but eliminating the possibility of acquiring more buffalo than their project permit allows.

  The urge to cross the river is hunger-driven, as are most migrations of game, and our buffalo are determined to go where they shouldn’t. So we take enormous risks trying to get them back when they cross. Watching the game guards running up and down the river bank, trying to chase the buffalo back when they behave just like naughty wild dog pups, trying to dodge around them and go where they know the grass is greener, reminds one of the situation the pup sitter often has to cope with. Unlike the pup sitter, however, which would have taken an unruly pup firmly by the scruff of the neck and deposited it safely back at the den, our guards cannot resort to scruff-of-the-neck treatment with the notoriously dangerous and uncooperative Cape buffalo.

  To cut a long story short, all but two buffalo were safely encouraged back to the reserve and as a result of the good rains in the Blyde River catchment area, the Olifants River has risen sufficiently to discourage any buffalo from crossing back over again, so for the time being our buffalo sitters can take it easy. Well, until the river drops again, of course.

  Later we found that there are buffalo that will swim a dangerously swollen river to get where they want to go.

  The reality is that we did our best, but the other reality is that an animal driven by hunger is determined and our well-meaning efforts were ineffective, particularly as the season became progressively drier. Ultimately, we had to make an offer they couldn’t refuse! Prior to the removal of the Klaserie fence, we spent hundreds of thousands of rands on supplementary winter feed to discourage the buffalo from wandering off across the river. I’m pleased to say that the cost we incurred and the logistical difficulties we handled were well worth it. The excellent configuration of the buffalo herd today owes much to the commitment of Balule Nature Reserve generally and the shareholders of Olifants River Game Reserve specifically due to their initiation of this project.