Running Wild

by Bristow, David;

  More and more they came to rely on Karl to be the public face of the business. Over time, the normally reticent Karl did more of the guiding while Juliette increasingly spent time with the horses. What with African horse sickness, nagana, biliary, snakes and hornets, and stable staff who did not turn up or forgot the water or to feed the horses or left the doors unlocked, there was more than enough to keep her busy even before she turned her hand to the more refined tasks of training and conditioning the horses.

  A safari horse has to be kept fit and healthy at all times because it is heavy but not regular work. Juliette was more than up to the task and kept not only the horses in tip-top shape but corrected poor gait and jumping technique, along with annoying the nails out of the itinerant farrier by telling him very precisely how she wanted him to pare and shoe “my herd”, as she called them. She was more subtle in correcting Karl’s riding technique. Not that it was bad, it just was not as good as she would have liked.

  As two attractive young people working together in the great outdoors, with a shared love of horses and nature, it did not surprise anyone when they started to get touchy-feely around one another. Nothing escapes the keen eyes of African people and the burgeoning love affair was as visible as an afternoon thunderstorm across the Kalahari. Amahokwe, lovebirds, the staff – ever quick with a nickname – named them.

  When asked how he had managed to carve David out of a block of Carrara marble, Michelangelo famously replied that it was easy: all you had to do was remove all the bits that were not David. When Juliette considered the quiet, kind young man she worked with, he was the ideal raw material for her. All she would have to do would be to chip away all the bits of African rock that were not the perfect man: Karl Eardmann would be her African masterpiece.

  In the paddock one day Juliette asked Karl if he could dance. After a fashion, he admitted. “Then dance with your horse,” she said. “Trotting is like doing the two-step. As the horse transitions, count the beat – one-two and up-down, one-two and up-down. Cantering is the waltz, galloping is a cha-cha-cha.”

  One day while she was taking new guests through their paces in the paddock she caught out Karl imitating her posh accent – “it’s like the two-step, one-two, up-down …”

  When she found Karl in the stable making baby talk to one of the horses, Juliette walked over and put her hand on the horse’s muzzle: “Is he teaching you how to dance?”

  Then, to him: “You know what they say, dancing is the vertical expression of a horizontal desire.”

  It took him a few moments to work it out, then he blushed.

  “Do you ever think about making love to your horse, Eardy boy?”

  He swallowed and she waltzed off grinning.

  With a growing bond centred on the horses, their own destinies began to be plaited together. With each new bird learned, each new plant, each night after dinner doing chores by lantern light, they halved and halved again the physical distance between themselves until the substance of their own bare skins was as insubstantial as the fabric of the microcosmos. It was inevitable, really, that under the generous southern sky, their future together was being written in the stars.

  When they married the following year, Juliette had the silversmith at Scarab Jewellers in Johannesburg inscribe two rings with the outline of Africa into which a word in runic script was cut:

  – EARDSTAPPER

  Earth walkers bound together on an adventure through the universe. But their new arrangement was too cosy for the boss and in her forthright way Wendelle informed them that yes, she would love to be “maid” of honour at their wedding and give them her heartfelt blessing, but there would no longer be a place for them at Pegasus.

  18

  A Trapis Sprung

  ON A TREE IN THE VILLAGE near the veterinary fence that cut off Mashatu from the world of subsistence agriculture beyond, where the main dirt road to Selebi-Phikwe runs, is nailed a rusty old sign. In crude, flaking white-painted lettering, it asks: “Why is the time here so very fast?” At Limpopo Valley Horse Safaris things were moving at a speed closely approximating African time warp.

  It was mid-winter and the camp was empty of guests. Harvey, the senior guide, was presiding over the after-breakfast natter. Sitting with him were the new arrivals, Karl and Juliette, a couple hired to take up the slack. On the other side of the table sat trainee guides West and Cheno, who was duly dubbed East.

  They were all wrapped up in an assortment of coats, scarves, beanies, hats and gloves. Winter in Mashatu can be as uncomfortably cold as summer can be hot. Night-time temperatures in July and August drop to zero or less and the dawn air is about as brittle as an Eskimo’s washing. The dry cold makes skin burn and crack. Lip balm becomes hard currency. When a wind picks up and cold dust swirls about, memories of summer are recalled with yearning. In spite of warnings, guests at this time of year usually came unprepared. The camp’s only capitulation to winter was hot-water bottles.

  The staff were enjoying second and third cups of coffee and munching on buttermilk rusks in the growing warmth of the July morning sun when Ruff marched up: “Harvey, grab a rope and a bullwhip, a dark horse has been reported making a nuisance of itself around the village. Juliette, grab some tack, Karl get some buckets with water and feed, then meet me by the Cruiser in five minutes.”

  “Pitse or the usual old pitse-ya-naga?” asked a skeptical Harvey, getting up slowly from a canvas camp chair, stretching, yawning and scratching his stomach.

  “I dunno, but this time it sounds promising,” said Ruff rushing off, then over his shoulder, “Safari Lodge says it’s the third time in the past few weeks they’ve been radioed about a black one. Nice of them to let us know, eventually!”

  Neither Karl nor Juliette had any idea what a pitse was, whether domesticated or ya-naga. They also knew nothing about the great flood and the escape of the horses more than four years previously but from that moment, and for years to come, their lives and that of the dark horse would be intimately intertwined.

  In truth, Zulu had not been trying to get to the village. He had been following the scent trails of other horses that he suspected might lead to desperately needed food and water. The function of the veterinary fence was to protect the national cattle herd from the wildlife, supposedly carriers of highly contagious foot-and-mouth disease (although the game experts reckoned it spread the other way around).

  Should there be an outbreak in the country, beef exports to Europe would be blocked and the cattle farmers, meaning pretty much everyone, would be out of pocket. That in turn could precipitate a crisis in government, so the veterinary fences were crucial to the country’s social contract. In the process, though, wildlife suffered – and sometimes a feral horse too – cut off from their natural migrations between wet and dry season ranges in this arid country.

  A group of Dutch guests who had been sleeping over in the open-to-the-sky kgotla camp was already on edge after a night of owl shrieks, hyena bickerings and lion grumblings. They were headed back to Mashatu Main Camp for brunch when they stopped at the foot-and-mouth gate where the sight of a black horse among a herd of zebras fretting up and down the fence line had them highly bemused.

  A rusty white Land Cruiser came barrelling down the dirt road towards them, generating a plume of dust and skidding up to the game-drive vehicle, covering everyone in fine powder.

  Game ranger Fish told Ruff: “Back there by the gate, it might be one of yours. He’s got a herd of striped ladies following him, but they’re not in such good condition.”

  “Great, thanks,” was all Ruff said and put the pedal to the gravel.

  Ruff stopped the vehicle short of the cattle grid and dipping pan. On the far side they could see Zulu and his zebra companions standing among a growth of terminalia trees. Zulu had wanted to lead them across but the cattle grid was a barrier they could not fathom a way around or through: doing its job splendidly. Juliette and Karl were fascinated by the sight, looked at one another, eyebrows raised, but
said nothing.

  The capture team climbed out of the Cruiser and Zulu began to make a tentative approach towards them. Ruff and Harvey, armed with lassos, made left and right towards the horse.

  “Come on Zulu, you old troublemaker,” Ruff called to the black stallion. At that moment the mares called and Zulu ran back to the safety of their numbers. The two men tried a pincer movement but could not get within throwing distance of the wary pitse, managing only to drive him further away. Zulu led them on a dance that took them several hundred metres into the bush.

  That was when Juliette, who had been following at a safe distance, pulled out one of her party tricks, letting out a shrill whistle. The two horseless cowboys turned to look at her, as did the horse, and the zebras too. She motioned the two men to come back. They looked at each another, then at the slim, poised young woman. Her hands on her hips said in no uncertain terms, “Let me show you something.”

  Karl, watching from the vehicle, grinned. But Ruff was not going to hand over to a junior, and a woman, just like that.

  He sauntered up: “Me ’n Harv reckon we’ve got this covered. We can set up a Bushman’s noose with one of these silver-leaf saplings; they’re springy and perfect for it. Put some oats in the middle and zap!” he clicked his fingers. “Maybe we should use the Cruiser to herd him back this way …”

  “Or chase him further into the bush,” replied the plummy-spoken, self-assured young woman.

  The four humans stood at an impasse.

  “What we need here is a bit of horse psychology,” suggested Juliette. “You set up your Bushman’s noose,” she said to Ruff. “Harvey, if you could go fetch the halter from the car, and Karl if you could bring the buckets of water and feed, I’ll lure the horse back here.” She usually called him Eardy but this was no time for sweetie talk.

  “Okay then, do your best,” Ruff acquiesced with a faint sneer. Karl and Harvey went back to the vehicle and Ruff started to collect the bits for his trap.

  “Once you’ve set your trap, move well away so you don’t create a barrier.”

  “Yes ma’am,” said Ruff sardonically, “I’ve done a bit of horse psychology myself. Usually with a whip.”

  “Just watch and learn,” Juliette said softly as she brushed past Karl. He stood smiling, knowing what the other two men did not yet: that she had a way with horses unlike anything they were likely to have seen before. What she could see and they could not, for instance, was how they had approached Zulu, square shouldered and direct. That will cause a horse to feel threatened. Not much different to human psychology. It might not run far away but it will retreat to a point where it feels safe again. It will not expend more energy than it needs to, knowing it has the advantage of distance and speed.

  Juliette walked on a course diagonally away from Zulu. He stood and stared at her. She walked past him and then stopped, staring into the distance. He stared where she was staring. Ruff and Harvey, standing a way back, watched her with bemusement. She turned her back to the horse and walked slowly towards the other humans, then stopped. The horse took a few tentative steps towards her.

  Juliette stared as if with intent at something in the bush beyond. The horse stopped and stared. She walked on a bit further and Zulu followed, still keeping his distance. Slowly but surely she led him on a zigzag course towards the trap. Pretending to ignore the horse was the most tantalising thing she could have done.

  She walked casually past the buckets of water and food on the ground, making sure to avoid the loop of rope that had been rigged around a circumference of pegs and tied to a bowed sapling, ready to be sprung. She walked on past it to join the others in the shade of a large shepherd’s tree.

  “Monty Roberts one-oh-one,” she said to no one in particular and winked at the small group of men.

  Zulu’s nose began twitching with excitement as he neared the awaiting banquet. It was too much for him and as his muzzle dipped into the water bucket one hoof knocked the loop of rope. In an instant, the pegs popped in sequence and dislodged the trigger branch, the bowed sapling whipped back and the noose pulled around the horse’s neck. It took just one second.

  The horse thrashed and reared and kicked and wrenched his head this way and that, serving only to pull the noose tighter until he could scarcely breathe. Juliette made sure she was first to get to him, taking hold of the rope with one hand, putting her other hand on his muzzle, and issuing soothing words into his ear. Karl was next to get there and began working the rope loose around the gasping horse’s neck. From that moment Zulu was remarkably calm and offered no further resistance.

  Harvey arrived with the halter and slipped it over Zulu’s head without a hitch. When he had a hold of the horse, Juliette broke off a handful of tough Bushman grass and began giving him a rough grooming, getting burrs out of his mane and tail and clouds of dust out of his coat. It felt good.

  He had become more of a bay horse from all the dust he was carrying. Karl noticed his ribs were showing, but in fact that is not unusual as horses can go into a kind of torpor in winter or in tough times, when they slow down their metabolism. Ruff instructed Karl to get onto the horse and ride it bareback to the Cruiser. He radioed back to base camp and instructed someone to meet them with a trailer.

  “Karl, try to get a saddle on him and we can make a start getting back towards camp,” said the boss.

  Karl had noticed several female zebras and some young ones attending just out of harm’s way. But, knowing nothing about the horse’s history, the new guide did not take specific notice of them. He and the others were so focused on the horse they paid scant attention to the zebras.

  But Karl also noticed, he would relate later, that the zebras had followed them back towards the vehicle. Once there, as soon as he placed a saddle on Zulu and then mounted him, the zebras ran off as if spooked. It was as if, suddenly, their pitse-ya-naga leader had been transformed into something unfamiliar.

  When the trailer arrived, sunrays were tickling the treetops and they still had a way to go. Everyone was grateful therefore, when Zulu walked calmly up the ramp and into the trailer. In all likelihood he was too tired and hungry to put up a fight. Only when they were nearing the horse yard in the dark and he picked up a scent that was familiar to him did Zulu become suddenly vocal.

  Sitting in the shade at Two Mashatus Camp some years later, Karl reminisced: “I do recall that so very vividly. But it was only later, when I learned all about Zulu and became close to him, that I understood the significance of what I’d seen that day.”

  More vexing, he admitted, was that no one had bothered to take notice of the zebras and to see if there were any young that looked like hybrids.

  “Did Zulu sire a generation of zorses?” he asks rhetorically. “We know he sired offspring from different dams at Rhodes Heights, so he could have. And you can be sure he covered his zebra mares or the herd would not have survived intact. But did they give birth during those very dry times, and did any survive the drought? Or perhaps been naturally aborted? That we just don’t know. And will never know.”

  19

  Return of the Prodigal Pitse

  AS THE TRAILER APPROACHED TWO Mashatus Camp, which would have been new to Zulu, waves of familiar scents washed around him from all the pitses that had already been put to bed for the night in the handsome new barn. There was a commotion inside when Zulu was led down the ramp and into an empty stall.

  “He seems all right,” Ruff declared. “Juliette, in the morning you can give him a check over.” Gaining, or regaining, a horse was his main concern.

  There was a new order and cleanliness that had not been prevalent at the old camp, including fly-screen netting and – for when summer came – fans. There was also the scent of something vaguely herby: Juliette had instituted a regimen of washing down the horses daily with an insect repellent made from khakibos. It was an old Boer concoction for keeping all manner of irksome goggas at bay. Belligerent pheromones flowed over the stall walls with the arrival of a ne
w stallion.

  The stable was full of new horses, as well as some of Zulu’s old comrades. There was ever-hostile Impi as well as happy-go-lucky Socks who had always been a very odd horse. He’d been severely mistreated in his youth and although he arrived as a content horse and seemed never to let anything get him down, he’d never fully been there: his legs might suddenly collapse as though someone had kneed him from behind, and next minute he’d go off galloping. Or he’d run into a tree, shake his head, and carry on as though nothing had happened.

  Many (including Fire) had succumbed to horse sickness, had accidents, were just not suited to the rigours of safari life and slowly lost condition, or they developed colic, and one evening their stalls would be empty – Frankie, Pale Face, Klomp, Goulash …

  In their place was a whole new gang of miscreants, some from the Namib that were gelded but still had not completely lost the ferocity of the old desert in them, others were local village horses that were bought as replacements for the bush collateral – Selous, Albany, Kalahari, Billy Boy. They’d all been reschooled by Juliette and were good to ride, though a fussy person (or horse) might find them a touch wanting in the finer points of equestrian etiquette.

  The story of what had happened to Zulu’s old nemesis, Ruff’s favoured horse Moyeni, was worth telling in some detail. Zulu’s constant tussle with him had widened the rift between the black stallion and the Cowboy. But it was Moyeni’s over-confidence that finally got the better of him.

  The very dark bay, nearly black, thoroughbred with airs of a champion eventer, had never shied away from a confrontation with elephants, calling their bluff whenever they mock charged. Ruff thought it was a big laugh but not everyone else who rode him did. One day while he was carrying a repeat guest from Germany, Moyeni pushed his luck too far. An old bull elephant came at them through the riverine thicket. Almost all serious charges are made by females in breeding herds, while male elephants seem to enjoy giving humans and their cohorts a bit of a scare.