Mhudi

by Sol T Plaatje

  The animal will react spontaneously and its survival instinct will compel it to take advantage and eat. So, when the lioness happened upon the man lying on the path, passed out in a horizontal position, to her he represented 70 kg of flesh, not a human being, not man.

  As the autopsy revealed, death occurred when her canines entered his brain as her powerful jaws clamped down to secure enough purchase to pull him off the path and into the bush. This certainly did not constitute an attack. She had not stalked and intentionally killed the man; therefore, strictly speaking, she could not be labelled a man-killer. Everything pointed to the fact that the poor man was probably already deeply comatose from the poisonous concoction he had drunk, and in all probability, he remained unconscious until he died.

  We were persuaded by the unfolding facts of the tragedy to believe the assessment and subsequent verdict were correct. Confirmation of this decision was that ‘Waiter-eater’ never behaved out of character or looked hungrily at another human being for the next nine years. Early one evening she and ‘Mama Cass’ crossed over the Umbabat’s southern cutline heading into the Timbavati, for the last time. We never saw either of them again.

  It had been the right decision not to label her a man-eater and to leave her to her life without further interference from man, intentional or otherwise. Recently I spoke to the highly respected Dr Dewalt Kheet, a veterinarian with the Kruger National Park, on the subject of man-eating lions. His vast experience with man-eaters in Kruger showed that the majority of lions which had killed man in an opportunistic circumstance, ‘Waiter-eater’ being a classic example, invariably returned to their natural prey; they didn’t become habitual man-eaters. This further confirms that the decision was the right one at the time.

  Ten years later and a mere two kilometres from where the waiter was killed, another lion attack occurred. A weekend social visit between the caretakers of two properties neighbouring Ingwelala in the Umbabat Nature Reserve ended in tragedy when a man decided to walk home alone through the bush in the dark.

  According to the statement from his friend, he and the unfortunate man had enjoyed a few drinks together, possibly a few too many, which no doubt gave him the Dutch courage to attempt what no unarmed, sober person would have even contemplated.

  Unarmed and walking alone in his state of inebriation in this reserve, particularly at night, was tantamount to playing Russian roulette with two or more bullets in the chamber instead of one. Another 500 metres or so and he would have been safe; he almost pulled it off. But … The pride of five lions had an unsuccessful night’s hunting on the Ingwelala airstrip. Dejected and hungry, they moved onto the main access road where they lay around for a while to regroup and plan the next hunt. Eventually the need to continue hunting, driven by hunger, got them back onto their feet, and from there they walked down the track that led directly to ‘Goedehoop’, the same track the man was on.

  The pride of lions and the man were moving towards each other, and it wasn’t long before the inevitable confrontation occurred. Having vastly superior night vision, the lions saw the man long before he was aware of them. Crouching in anticipation, two of them lay flat on the track while the other three moved into the bush on either side. As the man got closer something must have warned him of their presence. I suspect that when the lions were sure this was man, they instinctively growled as they often do when confronted by man on foot, though usually the growl erupts into a short grunt as they run away. At night, unless your response is convincing, this is not always the case. Realising the danger he was in, the man instinctively retreated and then tried to climb the nearest tree – which, unfortunately, was only a small mopane. This didn’t give him anywhere near the height clearance he needed to safely clamber out of reach of the lions. The big cats soon overcame their initial fear of the man, replacing it with curiosity and opportunism … the consequences were inevitable.

  Roy Keeler, artist, freelance ranger and resident of Ingwelala at the time, was one of the first people on the scene the next morning. According to him, all that was found was a section of the man’s femur and the ball joint and, in one of the pockets of a larger remnant of the man’s bloodstained overalls, a six-inch nail.

  Man-eaters Can Swim, Too

  A tragedy in November 2000

  African or Nile crocodiles don’t get anywhere close to the size of their Australian saltwater cousins, which can attain an inconceivable length of 11 metres! It’s incredible but true, and you need to actually pace out 11 metres to see why this measurement has got to belong to something prehistoric. African crocs may reach a maximum of some seven metres – smaller, sure, but no less deadly. The largest specimen was found in the Lake Victoria area and measured a shade over 22 feet (6.5 metres). The largest croc I’ve ever seen on our section of the Olifants River would probably measure a little over five metres, which is more than a metre longer than the man-eater I’m about to tell you about.

  Incidentally, the way I measure the larger females is when they are guarding a nest, which will invariably be in some soft sand on the riverbank. The first thing you do is wait until she isn’t there and isn’t likely to reappear in a hurry. Then, by taping the distance between her chin mark in the sand and the tail sweep line as she moves off, you can get a measurement within a few centimetres of dead accurate, good enough for me, anyway. Don’t ever try to take these measurements on your own; always have someone guarding you from the protective mother, who may assume you’re there to steal her eggs.

  There cannot be many happier moments in a young man’s life than the day he finishes school. It’s a time for celebration and partying before serious preparation for the rest of your life begins; a time when caution, responsibility and discipline are temporarily set aside; a time to let your hair down and enjoy the moment. What better way, then, than to grab a few beers and some meat, and head down to the river for a picnic and braai with your friends. The venue chosen by a group of students for this particular celebration was a neighbouring game reserve’s designated and popular picnic site, situated about 500 metres downstream from Olifants’ clubhouse. This well-chosen spot on the northern bank of the river lies in the shade of some of the most magnificent sycamore fig trees found along this stretch of the river.

  December in the lowveld is usually an uncomfortably hot month, and is often punctuated with early seasonal rainfall. The combination of these factors leads to high humidity, creating conditions that can become almost unbearable. Swimming becomes a practical, fun way to cool down, and where more enticing than the Olifants River, only a few metres away? So, as the sun climbed in the sky, the day got hotter, the dwindling beer supply got warmer and the languid, steadily-flowing river became more and more of a magnet to the group of students. At the time, the river was slightly swollen with rainwater from high up in the Blyde catchment, but it wasn’t carrying the red ochre-like silt load normally associated with flooding in the highveld and iron-rich region of Roossenekal. The water resembled weak coffee with a dash of powdered milk, not unlike the stuff we were served up in the army which we called ‘Cofftea’ because you couldn’t tell whether you were drinking tea or coffee, and like the water in the river, it was just murky enough to hide the tip of a teaspoon.

  The mini vortexes and swirls associated with under-water structures were noticeably less in the slower sections of the river, indicating deeper water. Potentially, these would be where the better swimming pools were, so it wasn’t long before someone went in to try it out. Shouting for his friends to join him, the intrepid youngster was trying to convince them how refreshingly cool the water was. Some of them made up their minds and began to strip down in anticipation of the swim. None of the students were old enough to remember when only a few hundred metres upstream, Steve Jablonsky, a well-known local builder, lost two large dogs to crocodiles, and that the late Jack Colenso, a former Olifants shareholder and owner of property across the river, had erected a memorial to one of his trusted servants who went fishing one afternoon and n
ever returned.

  Something dark and sinister that had hatched before these students’ parents were born, imprinted with millennia of instinct and evolution, now remembered … and reacted as its genetic memory insisted. No one noticed the huge crocodile that slowly slid off the opposite bank into the water and was now making its way towards the group of teenagers partying on the distant riverbank.

  Initially, the reptile may have been disturbed by all the activity, which normally would have caused it to move off. However, the lone swimmer who was now concentrating on staying afloat and swimming against the current had triggered its natural predatory response. For the croc, there was no turning back.

  Suddenly the young man swimming in the river screamed out in Afrikaans, ‘Iets byt my!’ (Something’s biting me.) In the next instant, arms flailing, he disappeared under the surface and into the murky depths of the pool. Initially his friends thought he was joking, playing some sort of aquatic ‘cry wolf’ game. That all changed when he briefly reappeared on the surface, further downstream, and this time his incoherent screams were cut horribly short as he was dragged under again. Paralysed with fear, they stared hopelessly at the water for an indication of where he could be, but there was nothing to see, the river gave no clue and nor did the crocodile. The croc had been big enough not to need any surface battle and show itself, it simply came up from underneath the hapless lad, grabbed him and pulled him under. There was nothing anyone could do; he never came up again and it was the last anybody saw of him.

  The crocodile thought to be responsible was approximately four metres long. This makes it a not particularly large individual, but apparently large enough to become a man-eater. There are quite a number of crocodiles in our section of the Olifants River that are at least this size and there are a couple of specimens closer to the barrage which may be nearly a metre longer. This particular crocodile could not be singled out as a man-eater because, as horrific as this tragedy was, the reality remains that all large crocodiles regard man as natural prey. Crocodiles are not in the same category as lions, for example. Killing a man-eating crocodile would simply be revenge, an act of vendetta, as you’re not going to solve anything. The vacuum you create will be quickly filled by another, equally efficient crocodile that is also a man-eater by nature.

  Nowadays, there’s a swimming pool at the Olifants clubhouse. It may not be as romantic as the river, but it’s a whole lot safer.

  Besides the Nile crocodile, there are no water-dwelling man-eating creatures to fear in the bush. I would be prepared to leave it at that … unless of course, I am reminded of an exceptional swimming creature that can be added to the list, depending on where in the African bush you find yourself.

  Although you won’t meet one on Olifants, the Zambezi shark Carcharhinus leucas, also referred to as a bull shark, is a species listed as extremely dangerous and known to attack and eat man. More scary is that these sharks are one of very few shark species that can tolerate fresh water.

  The bull shark in particular is equally at home in fresh or salt water, and is regularly seen in the Zambezi River and its tributaries. It can and does live comfortably for months on end hundreds of kilometres from the briny, so much so that some specimens have been recorded in the Kruger National Park! If you find this phenomenon difficult to swallow, the incredible tolerance of this ocean creature for fresh water has again been confirmed, when in late 2008 a three-metre bull shark was found in the Zambezi River nearly 400 km from the Indian Ocean! Can you imagine the dumbfounded look on the face of a wildlife trails guide when asked by tourists what the fin-shaped thing scything through the pods of hippo was?

  Marula Madness

  Based on a warden’s report – 1990

  The marula tree Sclerocarya birrea is to Southern Africa what the chestnut tree is to Europe, the date palm to North Africa and the olive tree to the Mediterranean. People are dependent on these gifts from nature, and in some communities the fruits provide an essential source of vitamins, energy and oils. In Africa, particularly the bushveld areas of Southern Africa, the marula fruit is not only coveted by its peoples, it is also a staple sought after by many species of wildlife from the smallest tree squirrel to the largest African elephant. In addition, myriad invertebrates are entirely dependent on this resource to complete their life cycle. For the most part, however, utilisation is complementary and discretionary, ensuring that there’s enough to go around – that is, until man and elephant cross paths. When both species compete for the fruit at common focal points, the competition inevitably leads to conflict.

  One such incident occurred in the Umbabat Nature Reserve a few years ago. An exceptionally good rainy season had produced a magnificent marula crop that year. Swollen with juice, and now too heavy for their delicate stalks, the ripe fruit fell and lay strewn under the trees in a pale yellow carpet. Marulas the size of golf balls were being gathered and eaten, but there were so many that most of them lay uneaten, slowly fermenting. Warthogs, baboons, vervet monkeys and elephant would spend hours selectively feeding, resting and then feeding again. Porcupines, which are usually nocturnal creatures, were observed feeding during the day. As the mid-morning sun began to warm things up, the baboons that had been feeding on the fruit since early in the morning were now satiated. Sitting on their haunches, they only moved now and then to scratch a flea bite, or yawn. Mostly, they sat in the shade with their arms hanging down either side of their bloated abdomens, resembling a bunch of beer-drinking spectators on the last day of a five-day cricket match.

  Elephant were also making the most of the harvest; in fact, eating so much of the fruit that there was often not enough other vegetation being consumed to bind their stools properly. Their droppings would collapse and break when they hit the ground, falling in a loose heap. The partially digested fruit now supplied food to a host of smaller animals, particularly those that didn’t care much for the pulp but were more interested in the oil and protein-rich kernels housed in the large pit, which the elephant’s digestive system is unable to process.

  Despite the numerous species of animals that eat this fruit, one immediately associates elephant with the fruit of the marula, and for good reason, as these enormous animals find it impossible to resist. High in sugars and rich in vitamins, as well as containing twice the vitamin C of an orange, marulas are highly sought after primarily as food rather than for the mythical intoxicating effect they have on certain wildlife so comically depicted and made famous in the movies. For man, however, the alcoholic qualities are of prime importance, as when distilled or brewed properly, marulas can make a variety of excellent drinks. As if to entrench this association between the marula fruit and elephant, they take the starring role on the label of the popular ‘Amarula’ liqueur.

  Marulas are used by indigenous people primarily for the production of marula beer, therefore fruit that is high in sugar would be a bonus, the key to a richer fermentation process and in turn a good brew. And so began the fever; word on the dusty streets of the region soon got out that this year’s harvest was particularly good in the lowveld, better than it had been for many years. This caused a mini-stampede of people from the surrounding communities, who moved into the area by the taxi load to harvest the bounty. Unfortunately, efforts to co-ordinate the gatherers as fairly as possible proved fruitless. (Pun intended.)

  Clouded by greed, caution was thrown to the wind, as bags of the fruit were gathered in a frenzy much like the out-of-control half-price sale mentality that shoppers can display at times. There was little rational thinking; reserve boundaries were ignored and, due to lack of respect for the dangers of entering big game country, the consequences were inevitable. It all led to direct conflict between man and elephant, or, more accurately in this instance, a clash between women and elephant, because nine out of ten people gathering the fruit were middle-aged women.

  We’d had a particularly busy couple of months. Tourists had flocked to Africa to escape the winter in Europe, and a good number had visited the bush.
As the onslaught waned and the bookings slowly began to taper off, Meagan and I decided to take a break. The hot summer had been taxing and we were looking forward to a few days up in the cooler high country of Dullstroom. There’s nothing like leaving the humidity and ambient temperatures hovering in the high thirties, then a couple of hours later and some 2 000 metres higher, lighting a log fire for warmth and atmosphere. It is such a contrast … and we love it.

  I like to start any road trip as early in the morning as possible, and this day was no exception. Having packed the car the night before, we were already heading out as the francolin started calling, and although the first pink hue of dawn had begun to light up the eastern sky, it was still dark enough to need headlights. I negotiated the patch of thick sand on the road as we left the lodge, curbing my impatience, as driving in sand is one of those things you cannot rush. If you rush, you’ll usually end up spinning your wheels and digging yourself in, so not wanting to delay this trip by getting stuck, I took it easy.

  As it turned out, had I gone any quicker, I might have driven head-on into the lampless bicycle and its rider that were heading straight towards us in the middle of the road. The bike was wobbling and weaving from side to side as the rider struggled to keep it in a straight line in the loose sand, with one hand on the handlebars and the other frantically waving us to stop.

  It was ‘Wednesday’, our gate guard on the Umbabat east gate; no prizes for guessing what day of the week he was born on. Clearly in great distress about something, he was babbling incoherently between gasps for air. Listening carefully, I got the gist of things from the odd key word here and there accompanied by his frantic gesticulations. Apparently his mother, who had come to visit him and collect some marulas, had been gored by an elephant!