Mhudi

by Sol T Plaatje

  After many thousands of years of dodging peregrine falcons, arguably the fastest predators on earth, speckled pigeons have evolved into one of the quickest and most evasive tacticians on the wing. They have earned the respect of both man and raptor, both hunters having to be wide awake to bag one. Irving was first off the mark and with a practised swing, collected the first bird, which folded in a puff of feathers. Before I could call out, ‘Good shot, Irv!’ we heard a man shout. Slowly, out of a grey shroud of windborne feathers, a policeman, cap in hand and with a few feathers sticking to his spotless uniform, emerged from the grove of poplars along the river. Apparently they didn’t use camouflage overalls in those days.

  Red-faced from anger and effort, he came straight to the point, explaining somewhat breathlessly that prisoners had escaped from Leeukop Prison, which was not far from there, and that he was part of a massive police manhunt for the convicts. They had been making steady progress along the river, he said, when the pigeon Irving shot had almost fallen on him. He angrily demanded to know what we thought we were doing. I simply told him the truth, and said that we were trying to shoot a few pigeons for the pot. He then asked us how old we were and when we told him, he informed us that by law we were not allowed to shoot unless over 21 years old, or in the company of someone of that age or older. He went on to say that if he hadn’t been tied up with the search, he would have confiscated the guns and fined us. However, if we took the guns home and stopped shooting, he would consider this as a formal issue of a warning.

  Thinking back, that shot going off must have alerted any escaped prisoner hiding within 100 miles, which wouldn’t have done their search effort much good, so it was no wonder he was so livid. We didn’t need a second prompting; we were off back home in a flash, just in case he changed his mind. How we would ever have told Uncle Mike that his cherished Greeners had been confiscated, I have no idea. One thing, though, the policeman was not a happy chappie, but he did let us keep the pigeon. Back at the house, Aunt May was busy in the kitchen bottling her delicious homemade preserves and jams to sell at their farm stall down the road.

  Greeting us with her usual broad smile, she enquired how many pigeons we’d bagged. When we showed her, she was more than a little disappointed, and it wasn’t until we’d told her the whole story that her smile returned. In a mischievous half-whisper, she told us that Mike’s mother, who happened to be visiting at the time, was well over 21; in fact, she was 82. Surely then, if she were to come along with us boys, everything would be legal and above board?

  The next day we gently bundled Uncle Mike’s mom into the Land Rover, packed a small cooler, and drove to the same spot from which we’d been chased the day before. I set up a comfortable chair we’d brought along and sat her in it. Hardly was she settled with a stiff gin and tonic in hand, when she called in the first pigeons, ‘Here they come, Irving.’ With her remarkable long-distance eyesight apparently unhindered by her oversize bush hat and ear muffs that almost covered her whole head, the pigeons didn’t stand a chance of sneaking past us. In a short while we had bagged our quota, and the game old lady, having grown up on a sugar estate, so no stranger to a shotgun, had thoroughly enjoyed herself out in the open air that afternoon.

  The pigeons were prepared to perfection, casseroled in a white wine and mushroom sauce, with a slice of streaky bacon wrapped around each breast and held in place with a toothpick. Not much was said as the guests began the meal. All I can remember is that at the start of the second course, not a bird nor a trace of sauce was left in the dish and Aunt May’s dinner party was, typically, a great success.

  Most of what I know about snakes I also learned from Irving. I would accompany him on as many of his snake-hunting expeditions as possible, which, besides forays in the Honeydew and Kyalami area, also took us into the wilder areas in and around the Magaliesberg. For me, it was never just about catching snakes, it was the real enjoyment of getting out into the bush. Irving would capture certain snakes for his own collection and others would be given to snake parks, the Reptile Park at Hartbeespoort Dam being one of his main recipients. He had a tremendous respect for reptiles, and remains one of the only collectors of snakes I’ve known who was never bitten. We caught snakes, did lots of fishing and enjoyed the bush, but it was our decision to rebuild a Series 1 Land Rover that changed things.

  This was a ‘chassis-up’ project that captured my undivided attention. It and the resulting focus of regular bush trips kick-started my desire for the bush, the lowveld in particular, where I would end up living, never to return to Johannesburg except when I just couldn’t avoid it.

  We used to call them ‘Four hundred rand Landies’ and they were barely able to get you home from where you bought them. This didn’t bother us too much, as we’d be rebuilding this one from scratch, something that was easier said than done. Undaunted, we persisted with boundless enthusiasm. Irving was a skilled movie camera technician, so his fastidious attention to detail when having to improvise proved invaluable. We begged, borrowed and stole, and everybody who could help, did help. Soon, the aged little classic began to take shape; just three months after wheeling a heap of junk into the garage, we were driving our reconditioned and rebuilt short wheel base Series 1 Land Rover out onto the road. A couple of weeks later, after sorting out all the teething problems, we began packing our gear for the few weeks we’d planned to spend in the Timbavati Game Reserve. We loaded everything we thought we’d need, but as there’s not too much space in a Landy ‘Shorty’, we had to think about what were necessities and what were nice-to-haves.

  By the time the rising sun compelled us to drop the visors, we were already approaching the half-way point near Middelburg. The Land Rover wasn’t exactly fast, and I was impatient to get to the bush, the anticipation being almost unbearable. I was about to realise the dream I’d painted on my bedroom wall a few years previously. This would be my first time in the ‘real’ bush where the Big Five roamed, there were two of us in a Landy ‘Shorty’ and when we lit a fire this evening against the backdrop of a setting sun, the picture would be complete.

  Doug Jackaman was the warden of the reserve at the time, and was based in the southern Timbavati, most of which was then owned by Hans Hoheisen. We would be staying in a bush camp with Doug’s son Dave, who was a friend and former colleague of Irving’s. The next morning over breakfast, Doug asked us to count all the wildebeest, elephant and buffalo we came across. My coffee cup wasn’t cold and I was already in the Landy ready to go, and this time my impatience was rewarded. We hadn’t driven more than 500 metres before I saw my first wild lions. I will never forget that sight, or the impact it had on me for the rest of my life. There were 13 of them, mostly sub-adults and females, lying on a dam wall, and I remember there were no big males. As it happened, these would be the last lions we’d see for nearly a week.

  There were always plenty of hyaena around though, and Dave would call them right up to the vehicle by cupping his hands to his mouth and bleating like a lost calf. We were less successful with leopard sighting, as they are hard to spot anywhere, but although we didn’t see any, we found a freshly killed common duiker hoisted way up into a knobthorn tree. Unfortunately, this was on the main dirt road through the reserve that took you to the Kruger Park’s Orpen Gate in those days. Leaving really early the next morning, we hoped to catch the leopard feeding before the traffic disturbed it. Our efforts were in vain: when we arrived, the kill was no longer in the tree. According to Dave, the bicycle tracks under the tree left no doubt as to what particular predator ended up with the duiker.

  The farms Spring Valley, Morgenzon and Kempiana, straddled a generous section of the Timbavati River and made up much of the area we drove in. The predominant veld type featured thick bushveld and knobthorn/marula woodland with beautiful, relatively large open seep lines. These black, cotton soil plains were studded with wildebeest and zebra made up of smaller family units in herds of up to about 60 individuals. In those early days, we would often mistake the
black masses of wildebeest for buffalo when they were far off. The total number of wildebeest in the Timbavati at the time was estimated at well over 3 000. Giraffe, too, were abundant; we saw them all the time, but although we regularly came across fresh evidence of elephant, we never saw one in over two weeks. According to Doug, the total population of elephant in the reserve was about 65. We also didn’t see any buffalo in the time we were there, although they too left evidence of their presence. The number of buffalo was thought to be around 180 at the time. Today, 35 years later, the Timbavati has well over 600 elephant and 3 000 buffalo, but fewer than 150 wildebeest! Yet the physical habitat, except for tree damage by elephant and a moderate amount of bush encroachment, appears to be relatively unchanged from what I remember all those years ago.

  What is so amazing – or, more accurately, so concerning – is not so much the drastic differentials in animal numbers, but the ecological ‘blink of an eye’ in which all this has happened.

  All good things come to an end. But, when it was time to leave, I don’t recall feeling sad at all. I felt content, summarising the emotion by turning to Irving with a confident, prophetic announcement. ‘One day, this is going to be my job and my life,’ I said.

  Footnote

  Hans Hoheisen has since passed away, leaving his property and its management to the South African National Parks Board. The Hans Hoheisen Wildlife Research Centre, which he conceived, founded and built, is situated near the Orpen Gate to the Kruger Park and stands in honour of his contribution to conservation. Sadly, however, this institute is now a mere shadow of the wildlife research and environmental education centre that he had envisaged.

  In similar realistic and perhaps disappointing vein, when I went back to visit The Lychgate nearly 15 years later, I found the old place had long since been swallowed up by progress, and a restaurant-cum-conference centre called Falcon’s Crest had been built on the estate. You could see the developers had tried to maintain the old charm and atmosphere by having parts of the house incorporated into the new structure, but sadly to no avail. Sunninghill was completely built-up, the river was littered with plastic bags and other detritus of humanity and The Lychgate and its surrounding countryside as I remembered it were gone forever. It even smelt unfamiliar and strange.

  I never did find out if they recaptured those escaped prisoners, but as for the speckled pigeons – well, in and around the mushrooming suburbs of northern Johannesburg there are more of them than ever. Aunt May and her guests continue to dine forever in my imagination, still leaving not a scrap of pigeon nor a drop of sauce.

  My Way with Leopards

  February 2010

  I don’t think there is a game ranger out there who hasn’t at some stage in his or her career fantasised about having a dangerous wild animal as a pet, and the reasons for this may be as varied as the individuals themselves. By way of example, on the one extreme, the thought of taking a 200 kg lion for a stroll in the bush while your city-dwelling counterpart takes his dog for a walk in the park may appeal to the machismo of some or the fantasy of others, or to those who simply love lions. However, this has proved to be both impractical and unsustainable; eventually something has to give, and invariably it is the animal that draws the short straw. Like all marriage, these journeys start out with every good intention and without contemplation of failure. Yet I have never seen a domesticated lion that was successfully rehabilitated into the wild once the relationship ended – and unfortunately, like some marriages, they do.

  Raising orphaned wild animals is not something that ordinarily ‘comes with the territory’ of being a game ranger. However, the very nature of our jobs and where we live means that we’re often the first door that gets knocked on when an animal needs help – and needless to say, that door is always opened. However, despite the best intentions, not all the creatures brought in are able to be accommodated. Time and expertise are required to nurture some of these orphans; they take dedication and a thorough knowledge of their needs. Not everyone is cut out to be a good mother and once the novelty wears off, many young animals are not given the appropriate care they need. More often than not, it is the sudden realisation of how much hard work it actually is, and then due to the caregiver’s work commitments and time constraints or lack of knowledge in this field, many animals are simply neglected. Then there is the emotional preparation needed in order to face the inevitable day the foster parents need to release animals that they have become attached to, or in the worst case scenario, bury those that have died, for whatever reason. Some people find these aspects, as realistic as they are, the most difficult to cope with.

  In the 35 years I’ve spent in the bush, my experience has been that for every successful release there are at least a dozen unsuccessful attempts. Artificially reared wild animals, habituated and dependent on humans, invariably end up in disaster; in fact I can count the success stories on one hand. But we’re human and that’s what makes us keep trying; and despite the hard lessons, we won’t accept the status quo. There will always be a belief among some of us that this time it will be different and we will make the breakthrough.

  It was a rather quiet afternoon at Thornybush Game Reserve. We had only just finished lunch and were contemplating fishing for tilapia in the river below the camp when the party-line telephone rang our ring, two shorts and a long. Frank, the Reserve manager, picked up the call, listened for a minute and then cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Do you want three leopard cubs?’ he asked. ‘What a question, of course!’ I replied without a second thought. I was 20 years old at the time and had no idea what I was letting myself in for … leopard cubs are just like big kittens, right? Little did I know at the time that this would be the start of an intimate relationship with three of the world’s most enigmatic big cats, and as predicted nothing was going to be predictable.

  The leopard cubs, two females and a male, were orphans of a female that had been poached on a farm close to the Manyeleti Game Reserve. Peering into the cardboard box that housed them, we were greeted by three spitting and snarling bundles of fur, their eyes barely open. Was this a promise of things to come? One thing we knew for sure, we now had our work cut out for us.

  The ‘we’ side of the deal didn’t last long. When Frank saw that trying to feed three uncooperative wild leopard cubs was dirty, difficult work, the romance wore off a day into the relationship. Although I was left holding the babies, I loved it. As the days went by, they began to feed well on a prescribed milk formula which they appeared to enjoy and the snarling was soon exchanged for contented slurping as they drank greedily. Very soon they began to associate me with food and love, and were now beginning to respond in such a way that it was clear they had accepted me and depended on me. Not able to spend as much time with them as I would have liked, I missed not being with them and began looking forward to feeding time almost as much as they did. I also found myself becoming quite possessive; I didn’t want to share the care of these precious bundles with anyone else.

  As a single young ranger my quarters were rather small so sharing them with three rapidly growing leopards began to leave much to be desired in the sanitation department. In short, my room stank so badly of cat pee and poop that the decision to move them was non-negotiable. There was no space to move without standing in something, so their paws were quite dirty; in turn the scratches on the back of my hands from their kneading claws as they clutched me while they drank turned septic. Yes, it was time for bigger, cleaner quarters … for the leopards, that is.

  Frank’s mother lived in a large farmhouse with an enormous garden a few hundred metres away from the main lodge. At the bottom of the garden was an old but nevertheless, lovely two bedroom thatched cottage where Frank had stored most of his bulky possessions, and he agreed the leopards could be accommodated there for a while. We moved everything into the one bedroom, leaving the other bedroom and the living room for the leopards. I made the room as comfortable as possible by stringing up an old tyre on a rope; I d
ragged in a beautiful old leadwood log for them to climb on and to stretch their tendons on. A couple of empty 44 gallon drums were placed in the corner and the insides lined with hessian, and a large litter tray was placed in the opposite corner to their water bowl. These small features were not only fun to do but they were necessary. The leopards were becoming playful and active now, they needed the stimulation and exercise to develop and appeared to love the layout: when I was unable to play with them outside the cottage, which I did as often as I could, they would happily romp around on the indoor props we had provided for them.

  At the time a popular TV series ‘The New Avengers’ was being broadcast weekly and I fell in love with ‘Purdy’, played by Joanna Lumley, so I named the cutest little female after her. The other female, however, was not to be trusted; a vicious attack on Frank one day left me in no doubt as to what we’d call her, so she was named Delilah. Bulu, the big floppy male, was like a young bull – cumbersome but strong, foreshadowing the animal he would one day become.

  As the cubs grew bigger they became more like the big cats their parents were, energetic and extremely powerful for their size. They were now almost as big as a large house cat and would soon need to be weaned onto meat. At first I began slowly with a mixture that included liquidised liver, then they progressed to mince, which we kept them on for a couple of weeks, and soon they were eating small pieces of meat, but meat alone was not ideal. Roughage and trace elements are also an important part of a carnivore’s diet: this would mean having to feed them a whole carcass of an animal – hair, teeth, toenails and all – so we started by giving them a dead tree squirrel to share … Beeeg mistake! They attacked each other with such ferocity that fur flew amidst blood-curdling guttural growls I’d never heard them utter previously. I was shocked; I also knew that from that day on they would never eat together again.