Mhudi

by Sol T Plaatje

  While we decided on what we would need to construct in order to keep them separate at feeding time, I happened to go into their room on a routine litter tray inspection. Suddenly my legs went tingly and cold, looking down I saw my lower legs were covered in a black mass, which closer inspection revealed was thousands of fleas; I’d never seen or felt anything like it in my life. Calling for Frank to come in and see for himself, I wasn’t surprised when he emerged a few seconds later: the look of horror on his face said it all. He was equally disgusted. ‘Flea powder is not going to work here,’ he said, climbing into his Land Rover, ‘but I think I know what will. I’ll be back in a few minutes, in the meantime get the leopards out of the cottage,’ he shouted over his shoulder. Then he started the vehicle and drove off in the direction of the lodge.

  The leopards were having a whale of a time in the bush outside the flea-infested cottage; they always loved the outdoors where they would play cat and mouse games with each other and the occasional grasshopper. Interestingly, they never wandered too far away from me and would come bounding back if they heard a sudden strange noise, particularly if their curiosity had taken them beyond the usual perimeter, which grew as their confidence did.

  Frank returned a little while later with a gallon of diesel in his hand. ‘This should sort those bloody fleas out once and for all,’ he said. The idea was to create a low smoky flame. A quick burn on the concrete floor would kill the fleas by roasting them and the smoke generated would kill those trying to escape in crevices and hidey holes. Honestly, I had never heard of this eradication technique before, but it sounded as if it would work and we needed to get rid of this plague quickly. However, being pioneers in this field we needed to be sure of the quantity to use, how long it would burn for and so on – essentially we needed to experiment first, do a practical test.

  Deciding to use the concrete floor of the stoep as a control, we sprinkled the diesel sparingly over an area of about three square metres and lit it. The result was a sluggish unimpressive flame that rose to no more than the height of our boots, but which burned long enough to ensure the fleas would be well done. Perfect!

  I removed their water bowl, but otherwise left the leopards’ room exactly as it was, then Frank sprinkled the diesel onto the floor, threw a match down and set it alight. At first all went much as it did outside on the stoep, then suddenly the flames began to get higher, and even though we had moved outside we could hear the fire. Somehow the draught through the open door and window had produced a drawing effect, causing the diesel to burn with much more intensity than we had anticipated! Realising there was nothing we could do to put the fire out and that the cottage was doomed, we resigned ourselves to making sure the leopards were safe and then doing some damage control.

  With the leopards playing on the shorter grass on the edge of the clearing, safely out of harm’s way, Frank and I could now focus on getting his belongings out of the other room. Old elephant tusks, a piano, furniture, a couple of zebra skins and so much other paraphernalia that he had accumulated over the years was dragged out and thrown onto the lawn surrounding the cottage. Up until now I’d kept one concerned eye on the burning cottage and the other on the leopards, but I needn’t have worried. It was only when the tinder-dry thatch caught alight and started spitting and crackling that the three otherwise bemused cubs showed anything more than mild curiosity. Even though this was their first experience of fire, they appeared to have no real fear of it; in fact they were more interested in the animal things and skins that came out of the cottage, which made an interesting play heap on the lawn. Some of the skins that we’d draped over the furniture took on a realistic impression of the animals that once wore them, and as young as they were, the leopards’ interest was more than casually aroused.

  In less than an hour all that remained of the cottage were the white walls and a few blackened timber poles. Years later when I flew over the lodge, the charred remains still stood as a stark reminder of the day two pyromaniacs were let loose with a can of diesel. The cottage was never re-built … and even though some 35 years have since passed, some say the ghosts of a billion roasted fleas haunt the old place to this day.

  We urgently needed an enclosure to house the leopards; in fact we needed three separate pens in one. So, housing them temporarily in the Lodge’s enclosed vegetable garden, we spent the next couple of days building their new homes, which turned out very well. They could now eat without fighting with each other, and it was also a lot easier to give them individual attention when we needed to, as each one had a distinct character and reacted differently to various stimuli. I could never allow myself to lose sight of the fact that however tame they became, they were still leopards and pound for pound arguably the most dangerously powerful felines on earth.

  As the leopards grew, so did my love for them, but I knew that one day they would need to go back into the wild, which was something I had absolutely no compunction about. Even so, letting go was going to be tough … it always is. Unlike most large carnivores, a hand-reared leopard, like a domestic cat, can be released into the wild without being taught how to hunt. The ability to kill prey is an instinctive natural progression as they develop; they are masters at adaptation and survival and their capability to eke out an existence in marginal territory is legendary. It appeared nothing could stand in their way, and that all the boxes for their survival were ticked – however, this was not to be.

  Our relationship very nearly came to a premature end one day when we were paid a surprise visit by the conservation authorities. Somehow the word got out that three leopards were being held captive in an enclosure, and truth be told, we didn’t have the required permits to keep leopards in captivity. In this instance the two officers used their discretion and judgement. They could see we had the leopards in decent enclosures; they also knew the cubs were dependent on care until their release. Taking these factors into consideration, they decided that confiscating the cubs would serve no constructive purpose and pending the permits being issued we could keep them. Clearly these were men with a broader outlook and conservation sense. This observation made at the time materialised years later when both of them went on to do their PhDs and become leading conservation figures in this country. One is a world-renowned expert on large carnivores and game census techniques. Sadly those now filling the shoes of these men are a mere shadow of the conservationists of yore, and I sincerely doubt whether this department has officers today that can spell the words ‘discretion’ or ‘judgement’, more’s the pity.

  When the leopards were about nine months old, I left Thornybush to take up a long-sought-after post at Letaba Ranch. Frank took over their full-time care and by all counts did an excellent job, but it was not all plain sailing. One day, arriving at the enclosure, only Purdy and Bulu rushed up to greet him: Delilah’s body lay cold and stiff on the dew-covered grass at the back. Subsequent autopsy results revealed heart and respiratory failure as the cause of death; this finding confirmed she had been bitten by either a black mamba or snouted cobra.

  At the age of 22 months Bulu and Purdy were released to fend for themselves. The easy part for them would be hunting for food; the hard part would be keeping from becoming food! The reserve had its own resident leopards, lions and hyaenas, all of which would kill a stray young leopard in a heartbeat. Until the young leopards’ confidence levels improved it was felt that a more gradual or phased release would be preferable, so Bulu and Purdy were allowed to come home to their enclosures on occasion and get the odd free meal.

  As time went by Bulu grew into an enormous animal; soon his sheer size would be enough to intimidate potential rivals and allow him to mark out a territory for himself. Both he and Purdy would spend increasingly more time in the bush, at times two or three days at a stretch. Neither leopard was fitted with a radio collar, in hindsight a huge oversight, but then again radio telemetry was not as developed in the early seventies as it is today. Also, I suspect everyone assumed they would simply melt away i
nto the wilds of the African bush once they were confident enough to leave on their own. Reports of their movements from neighbouring landowners indicated they were definitely exploring further and further away. Apparently Frank was asked one evening by a neighbouring lodge owner to please come and collect his leopard. Purdy had found a perfect tree to snooze in, but unfortunately it happened to be in their boma, so the chef wouldn’t do any cooking for their paying guests while she was up there.

  To be able to see and touch a beautiful apex predator of such enigmatic and elusive qualities is an animal lover’s equivalent of a religious experience, and a once-in-a-lifetime privilege for most wildlife enthusiasts. For some she was not much more than a novelty, a conversation piece to impress overseas visitors and friends, and at times regarded as a ‘bush lodge accessory’. Eventually, however, her lack of fear for people, wanderlust and easygoing nature were to be her downfall. A visiting hunter on the property next door out looking for impala one morning was confronted by Purdy. Unaware of her status, the man suspected the leopard boldly approaching him in broad daylight to be rabid, so he understandably but tragically, shot her.

  Bulu became the leopard nobody thought a leopard could become, predictable to a fault and affectionate, the antithesis of his late sister Delilah. Once he’d fed he would play like an overgrown kitten, his movements at this stage typical of those produced by immature muscles sometimes over extended and often with more power than was necessary. Bulu was rapidly developing into a huge tom leopard and at two years of age he weighed nearly 60 kg! Each time a new cell divided in his growing body, it made him stronger, faster and more limber, and soon it became difficult to play with him without getting hurt. It was time for him to move on and fulfil his rightful role as a wild leopard. Discouraged from staying by the cutting off of food, he slowly began to get the message, within a few months his return visits became less frequent and of shorter duration, and soon he didn’t come home at all …

  About a year later word filtered back on the whispering leaves of the bushveld, that a large leopard had been shot by a trophy hunter on the farm next door, known as ‘Mossies nest’. I have since often wondered what trophy room or hearth Bulu’s trophy now adorns and whether the hunter even knew the history of this magnificent animal he killed. Somehow I doubt it. However, what I do know is that the outfitter of that hunt most certainly did.

  Footnote

  Most of the time this task of caring for and rehabilitating wildlife orphans is best left to those who know what they’re doing. I refer to the likes of Karen Trendler, for example, and the other Mother Theresas of the animal world too numerous to mention here. Committed individuals who are prepared to accept the responsibility of raising orphaned wild animals or nursing those with injuries back to health, and then the challenge of rehabilitating them if necessary … However, back to cold cynical statistics. After 35 years I can still only count on my one hand the success stories I know of involving hand-reared and rehabilitated wild African animals – but that doesn’t mean we should be discouraging those who care from trying … we wouldn’t be human if we didn’t give in to our emotions from time to time.

  Man-eaters

  After a worker was attacked by lions on Olifants North – 2008

  An unprovoked attack on man by wild lions motivated by hunger elicits the most primordial fear in all of us. Being stalked intently by predators, hunted with the express intention of being devoured, and the final horror of being eaten alive, has got to be a fate worse than death. It takes us back millions of years to when we were lower down the food chain, to when we were considered just another prey item on the menu. It conjures up long-dead memories of a time when we ran in fear of these big cats and their larger predecessors, typified by the sabre-toothed tiger.

  Our ancient forefathers’ days and nights must have been filled with constant fear: as if the daily challenge of finding enough to eat wasn’t bad enough, they had to duck and dive, but mostly climb, to stay alive.

  Although a lot of water has since flowed under the bridge of evolution, and thankfully the tables have largely been turned, lions still need to be treated with the utmost respect. One on one, an unarmed man would have less chance of staying in one piece against a lion than a bleeding seal would have of getting across False Bay! Physiologically, lions are the same awesome predators today that they were all those years ago, though the scales of fear have since tilted in our favour. Millions of years of evolution have seen man advance in intelligence and survival stratagems to the point where we are now feared predators in our own right. Consequently, these big cats now show a grudging respect and deep-seated dread of man, avoiding confrontation whenever possible and usually only attacking under extreme provocation.

  So what makes a man-eater a man-eater?

  Before you start believing that the Tsavo man-eaters’ genes have migrated 3 000 km south to the lowveld, I need to delve into the background of some circumstances that could drive a lion to attack and become a man-eater.

  Let’s take the best-known case of man-eaters in Africa, ‘The man-eaters of Tsavo’, and scratch around beneath the everyday surface of the story, seeking the less romantic stuff that doesn’t make for box office appeal. In this brief explanation, ‘hype’ has no place, and although speculation and hypotheses could fill volumes, here’s my attempt to give you, concisely, some insight into my take on things as gleaned from the recollections of men who were employed to hunt the man-eaters down, in particular the famous hunter, JA Hunter.

  Construction of the Tsavo railroad, also known as the Lunatic Express, began in 1896. Incidents of lion attacks started to escalate until, two years later in 1898, 28 Indian workers and an unknown number of African labourers were killed and eaten by lions in less than a year. But it didn’t end there; in fact the terror spread and lion attacks on people continued at isolated railway stations for the next two decades. The line between Athi River station 25 miles east of Nairobi and the aptly named Simba station, was one of the most notorious for man-eating lions. Given that records for the number of people killed by lions in the Tsavo area are less than reliable, I wouldn’t place too much store on the accuracy of data recorded for the number of man-eating lions shot in retaliation. However, reading the various hunters’ accounts, and allowing for the ‘fisherman’s tale’ factor, it is apparent that many blameless lions were hunted down as potential man-eaters and indiscriminately shot. This is substantiated by the fact that professional hunters were employed on a full-time basis to tackle the problem and part of their remuneration, or incentive if you like, was the cash they earned for the skins.

  The Tsavo railroad project needed over 2 000 workers for its construction. Try to imagine the logistics necessary to maintain discipline, health care, safety and hygiene when dealing with so many illiterate labourers, the majority of whom had never worked in the bush or seen a lion in their lives. Given the technical constraints and the remote wilderness in which the Tsavo line was built, it must have been one helluva job for the supervisors and engineers. I know how much management a field staff of around 30 people requires nowadays, despite modern technology and current logistical support options. Trying to manage so many people in a testing environment under primitive conditions must have been extremely difficult.

  I’d guess that a major portion of their day-to-day routine was adapted ad hoc to meet the needs of an ever-changing situation, with new challenges to be met on a constant basis. Inevitably, this meant that things slipped through the cracks now and then.

  Unfortunately, the lions were quick to capitalise on any weakness or lapse in discipline. For example, the latrine facilities and waste disposal procedures were informal. Everything was ‘done and dumped’ in the bush, and this alone would have attracted scavengers. Labourers shirking work, hiding in the bush and sleeping in the open no doubt provided more opportunities for confrontation between lions and man by attracting interest from predators prowling the bush on the periphery of the camps. Nocturnal and social mo
vement of workers between the tented accommodation areas would certainly have led to over-indulgence at times, resulting in dulled senses and increased vulnerability. In lion country, there’s only one outcome to the equation: (Dulled Senses + Lion) x Darkness = Death

  Medical facilities, if available at all, were crude at best. A work force of this size, living cheek by jowl under such primitive and unhygienic conditions, would inevitably succumb to illness sooner or later. In order to prevent contamination, those with fever or infectious diseases were left in the bush with little or no medical attention to either recover or die. In 1896, an unseasonably wet year, 500 labourers went down with malaria alone!

  Although illness and death were accepted occurrences under these conditions, it was the post-death procedures that left even more to be desired. The often hastily dug, shallow graves were easily excavated by predators and the bodies unearthed and scavenged.

  Very soon the predators realised they didn’t need to wait for the burial ceremony; they could speed things up by simply taking the hapless victims from their makeshift beds while they were still alive. From there, the progression was inevitable: healthy individuals became a menu item for predators.

  Some aspects of the foregoing slice of history are being repeated in our neck of the woods in the twenty-first century. Perfectly healthy lions are being conditioned to become man-eaters. Mozambican refugees and illegal immigrants are attacked and eaten by lions as they attempt to cross the expanse of the Kruger National Park into South Africa on foot. According to members of our staff who have run the gauntlet unscathed, these journeys are almost always undertaken on full-moon nights to avoid detection by daytime ranger and anti-insurgent patrols.