by Linda Tucker
He’s one of the few people with any idea of the long and treacherous uphill path I’ve been treading. So I hug him back.
What a roller coaster it’s been: challenges, breakthroughs, and then even greater challenges. First the police raids and successful seizing of Marah from the iron fist of the trophy-hunting operations—a narrow escape! But then the totally unexpected foe in Dr. Cloete. I didn’t have a chance to savor the hard-fought success of that first rescue mission before the fraught custody battles began with the zoo. Instead, I had to secure Marah’s release all over again, this time from the clutches of a seemingly legitimate institution and its mercantile genetic speed-breeding programs. From the start, I understood the canned-hunting industry as a shadowy underworld of animal laundering, but to find reputable zoological bodies with direct links with these nefarious, underground syndicates was my worst setback.
“It’s not over yet,” I say to Jason.
“Sure. But this temporary safe haven’s a huge step forward,” he says encouragingly. “Agreed, it’s an arid wilderness and it isn’t the White Lions’ indigenous range. So our objective remains to return them to their endemic habitat of Timbavati.”
I nod. “But the question that’s haunting me is: To what fate?”
Jason picks up my tacit reference to the trophy-hunting policies in the Timbavati Private Nature Reserve. I wonder whether he and I would have established the same deep bond if it weren’t for these tragic circumstances.
“Still feel terrible about Ingwavuma,” Jason comments kindly, picking up my own thoughts. “So unnecessary.”
As always, I am moved by his reference to the lion Maria Khosa called my Spirit Guardian, the lion I loved with all my heart, whose assassination I was unable to prevent. I find myself fighting back tears all over again.
“I don’t think I’ll ever get over Ingwavuma’s death,” I observe.
“Understandably,” Jason responds with compassion. As a conservationist with a deep love of his subject matter, Jason is also appalled by such irresponsible hunting activities.
I hesitate, then verbalize the words in my heart. “And I don’t think I could live with myself if the same happened to Marah.”
“We’ve gotta ensure it doesn’t,” he responds.
“How?”
“By getting our facts straight. And fighting for them.”
Ensuring Marah’s safety remains my primary worry, and ever since committing to her return to Timbavati, I’ve been proactively researching the facts, but nothing I uncovered put my mind at rest. In fact, my investigations into Timbavati and its trophy-hunting policies have largely been stonewalled. Everything’s shrouded in secrecy and intrigue. Jason’s the only person who’s prepared to talk openly and transparently with me, while virtually everyone else acts as if they’ve something to hide. It came as a total surprise to find such a sympathetic hearing from a scientist—a profession that, in my experience, tends to detach from its subject matter. But I’ve come to see there’s a passion guiding Jason’s scientific thinking, unusual for the conventional scientific mindset. This distinguishes him from many other scientists whose intellectual indifference often leaves them without heart or soul—even to the point that it allows them to commit terrible atrocities on laboratory animals “in the name of science.”
“Done some more research for you,” Jason comments, producing a document from a file he’d stashed at the back of the vehicle. “I remembered you saying that 1993 was the year a fully grown White Lion male suddenly appeared at the commercial hunting operation bordering Timbavati, right?”
“Right!” I confirm.
“Well, I found this affidavit,” he explains, “in which the warden from Kruger National Park recorded that a huge White Lion male was sighted south of Timbavati in 1993—in Tshokwane. It was the only White Lion recorded at that time, and fully grown. But the warden notes that this White Lion male suddenly disappeared and was never seen again. Then I remembered you telling me you have an account of a fully grown, drugged White Lion male being transported in the back of an open pickup truck to the commercial hunting operation that same year, 1993.”
My whole body freezes. A chilling coincidence. Another grim piece in the puzzle.
Jason verbalizes what I’m thinking. “Probabilities are this is the same male that ended up in the canned-hunting camp.”
I reach for the notebook I always keep in my back pocket, in order to show Jason an entry. I have documented an eyewitness account from a game ranger who sighted the incident in 1993. He said he was outside a gate of a captive breeding operation bordering Timbavati when a man arrived in a pickup truck. The man stopped and opened up the back of his truck to gloatingly show what he was transporting: a huge, drugged White Lion male. The game ranger said this man openly bragged about his newly acquired prize. He learned later that this very man was the godfather of the canned-hunting industry.
I hand the entry over to Jason and comment, “That White Lion skin hanging in the curio shop in 1985, which shocked me at the time, is just the tip of the iceberg. Where’ll it end?”
I know these shadowy beginnings have spawned a notorious burgeoning industry that knows no restraint. Investigating the current situation has uncovered a crisis worse than I could ever imagine. Each small piece of this disturbing puzzle is clearly testimony of a much greater entrenched and merciless strategy that targets the King of animals as its most prized commodity. Trophy hunts, White Lions baited and snared, clandestine deals struck by people in positions of power. And on the borders of the Timbavati Private Nature Reserve, commercial hunting operations where the lions, poached from the wild, are bred to be shot in cages.
By contrast with the killing camps, the Timbavati Private Nature Reserve itself is a reputable conservancy area. It’s collectively owned by some seventy private landowners in a patchwork of title deeds. Many owners are high-flying city dwellers who purchased this land during Apartheid times for purposes of occasional retreat and hunting holidays. It was then organized into a well-run reserve, directed by an executive committee and centrally managed by a warden and his staff. But the problem is these landowners take no responsibility for the custodianship of ancestral territories, which ultimately in my view don’t belong to them but to the White Lions themselves, the true guardians of the land.
“The situation’s worse than I ever imagined,” I admit.
Jason responds, “The owners probably aren’t aware of all the disreputable activities taking place.”
“Either they’re not informed or they’re not interested,” I comment.
Jason himself was an eyewitness to a lioness being stolen from Timbavati by a canned-hunting operator. He reported it to the warden, but nothing was done.
Having looked into the situation more deeply, it seems to me the warden’s hands were tied. Having met with him several times over the years, I’ve developed a great respect for this tough talker. He’s a macho man with a warm heart—ex-Special Forces. He runs the reserve with integrity and passion in a firm, orderly, militaristic fashion. He’s dedicated and structured, having instituted a systematic antipoaching protocol that has been detecting illicit activities on all borders. When I questioned him, he admitted he’d found bait on fence lines and fences cranked up to lure lions under. There was at least one incident uncovered when a vehicle entered Timbavati’s land, only to exit again with drugged lions under tarpaulins in the back. But again, nothing was done about this. Why?
I think back to my discussions with the warden. Clearly, he’s a fearless and unstoppable kind of man, but when we spoke about these issues, he was on the brink of tears, describing how he was forced into a defensive position, and how the local police themselves had warned him off with a sinister threat that if he stuck his nose into other people’s business, his wife and kids could get hurt.
“If the landowners knew what’s going on,” I ask, “could they stop it?”
“Seems they’re more concerned about bad publicity than the issue
itself,” Jason comments.
Seeing as we are on this controversial issue, I decide to ask Jason for his professional opinion. “Jase, I know you were personally appalled when Ingwavuma was killed, but, as a scientist, what’s your view on trophy hunting?”
“As a scientist?” Jason ponders. “People try make a case for sustainable utilization, sure. But my problem is trophy hunters always go for the prize specimens—the antelope with the biggest horns; the elephant with the largest tusks; the lion with the thickest mane. It’s not ethical, and it’s not environmentally sound. By taking out the dominant specimens, they’re not only killing the individual, they’re damaging the species.”
I nod slowly.
“And frankly, my personal view is it’s a despicable sport for modern-day men to get their kicks.”
“Wonder what they’re trying to prove,” I mutter. “Something’s missing.”
The desert heat is building up and a warm wind blows dried tumbleweeds across the dust road in front of us. All four cats have settled down together under their camel thorn in a heap of entangled white furry paws, limbs, and tails to sleep off the midday sun. For the first time, they look content.
“They should be asleep for a while now,” Jason observes, “even if they’re a little jittery.”
Apart from the lions’ camel thorn, the only tree in sight is a desiccated, spindly-looking species, a desert willow casting minimal shade. But I notice Jason eyeing it.
“We should catch some sleep under that tree for a couple of hours ourselves, if you’re intending doing the night shift with me,” he says.
“Good idea!” I reply, weak with fatigue.
The desert willow is only some three hundred meters away, so I am about to open the vehicle door and walk over to it.
“Lindz—we’ve gotta talk this through,” Jason cautions me, somewhat firmly. “I appreciate you’d love more than anything to be one with Marah and her cubs. And knowing your relationship with her, I’ve no doubt she’d accept you as one of the family.”
“I’d love nothing more in the world than to be cuddled up with them right now,” I admit, knowing only too well what he’s about to say.
“Problem is, if you truly value Marah’s freedom, you need to immediately stop all forms of human imprinting.”
“Yeah, I know,” I respond with an aching heart.
“Like walking past them on foot, or getting out and going up to their fence.”
“Yeah, I know,” I repeat the explanation he’s given me previously. “This could prejudice their chances in the wild and make them dependent on humans.”
He nods sympathetically.
“But it’s such a wrench!” I confess. “For me, it’s the most natural thing in the world to be with them.”
“It’s in her best interests. If your intention is for her to spend her life in captivity or in a circus, well, it’d be another matter.”
“A circus! God, no!”
I appreciate Jason’s sound argument, but it goes against all my greatest longings. Having just saved her, but never being able to approach her on foot again, or cuddle her, or hug her as I did when she was nine months old, that’s my greatest sacrifice! I know in my aching heart that each of these painful steps of separation is vital in undoing the unnatural dependencies that hold this great cat in bondage to humans. In putting the necessary steps in place for Marah’s freedom, I know I have to resist my yearning heart and withdraw all contact with my beloved lioness to allow her primal umbilical cord with Mother Nature to revive once more.
So, rather than walk past the lions, we drive the vehicle over to the nearest tree some three hundred meters away and climb out. The gentle shade beckons.
Jason rolls out an army-style sleeping bag on the warm earth and unzips it to double-size. Given the slightest encouragement, I can see us making love in the dappled shadows under the desert willow, with our lions nestled nearby, peacefully sleeping away the midday heat. But we’ve both been awake and vigilant for more than forty hours, and before I even realize it, Jason is sound asleep, a contented figure in the half shade, head resting comfortably on his right arm.
The tranquility of the moment is sublime. I am with my lion family for the first time in my life! For a long, lingering moment, I savor the sweet sensation of victory.
CHAPTER 12
Reclaiming the White Lion Kingdom
SIX WEEKS AFTER MY SUCCESSFUL RESCUE of Marah and cubs, and their relocation to the sanctuary in the Karoo, I stand in the minuscule bathroom of the tiny apartment I rented in Pretoria, trying to shut my mind down for the night. August 1, 2004. I need rest in order to focus and find a way to secure land in Timbavati for Marah’s protection—whatever the cost.
There’s a specific piece of privately owned property, in the middle of the greater Timbavati region that was identified years back by Maria Khosa—at the very heart of the original sacred lands of the White Lions. This highly strategic property is on the market. In fact, I was informed it’s been on the market for quite some time, but now is at risk of being snapped up.
In order to return Marah to her natural habitat, there is only one way forward. Since Timbavati hunts lions, releasing Marah directly into the danger zone is unthinkable. Until there’s a genuine revision in the hardened pro-hunting attitude of the current landowners and their wildlife management, my only option is to somehow purchase my own property. What a huge, life-changing decision. This strategy hadn’t occurred to me before. But how else can I ensure Marah’s safety and the future of her kind in their endemic habitat? Of course, it seems an impossible dream. Lion prides ideally require thousands and thousands of acres upon which to roam. So if I am to get real about this decision, my looming challenge is not only to identify large tracts of wilderness that once belonged to the White Lions as their natural endemic kingdom, but, most intimidatingly, to find the funds to purchase them.
That’s why I’ve rented this one-room apartment in the city. I call it The Cupboard due to its size. It’s even smaller than some of the diminutive Paris apartments I shared with other fashion models in the early ’90s, crammed with several beds, dirty dishes, and expensive cosmetics. At least The Cupboard is clean and central—which wasn’t the case in those modeling days. Shower unit, minute kitchenette, and little bedroom with a fold-up bureau and double-size futon, which takes up almost all the floor space. I remember reading somewhere that rats in confinement start killing each other, so it’s no surprise the crime rate in the cities is so appallingly high. If it weren’t for my commitment to conservation, I’d never consider being cooped up here. But The Cupboard is a refuge, a convenient place in the city center, and it’s all I need from a practical perspective to focus on fundraising as my most urgent next step. My divorce settlement has finally come through, so I’m in a position to at least put a down payment on the property, but I’ll need much more money to purchase it outright.
I was heading to bed early, but my cell phone’s ringing. It’s Ian. Dear Ian! I know he’s worried, but I can’t face his interrogation. So I let it ring. Unusually, my mentor doesn’t leave a voice message.
But I hear my cell phone peep insistently. It’s a follow-up text message. “Where r u??”
I text back: “Call you in the morning.”
After a lifetime in conservation, Ian’s advice is worth more than anyone’s in the conservation world, but ultimately, I know this is a decision only I can make. Come to think of it, looking back at how far I’ve come, there have never been any real decisions. My deliberation always turns on what’s best for Marah, and I simply act accordingly. So in facing this critical action step now—one of a series of difficult strategic choices I’ve had to make since Marah’s birth four years ago—I simply need to follow the same principle of ensuring her best interests. First and foremost, I have to secure a critical piece of ancestral land and return the Lion Queen home.
My space has one superlative difference to those cramped Paris quarters: the magnificent White Lion
s! One entire wall is taken up with a truly spectacular oil portrait of Aslan, King of kings. His image creates infinity. He stares through laser-blue eyes into my world, as if into my soul. After the police raids into the canned-hunting camp that finally led to Marah’s rescue, I’ve never been able to forget the king I left behind. After I helped save her life, my great pain remains that I’m in no position financially or legally to rescue him or even to negotiate his freedom. But not a single day has since passed without a silent prayer for Aslan, monarch-in-waiting—a prayer to ensure that an unjust regime does not execute him.
Agitated, I get ready for bed, but can’t settle down. The decision I’ve made to purchase the property can float or sink my life’s project. I know what’s at stake, but I have to follow through. I’m wrapped up in a warm, long-sleeved T-shirt and thick woolen socks and heading for bed. But my cell phone rings again. Ian didn’t save the world’s wilderness regions by being a wilting wallflower, waiting for morning. He’s the most persistent man I’ve ever met. This time, I answer the phone.
“So you’re going through with it?” he demands in his gruffest voice.
“Hi Ian. How’re ya doing?”
“Hope you know what you’re doing, sweetheart!” he retorts.
He’s alluding to the property purchase: invading my pipe dream of securing land for Marah and forcing a reality principle. When we discussed this earlier, he didn’t hesitate to point out I’d be moving onto territory surrounded by hunting activity on all borders and, furthermore, purchasing this besieged land with my last existing funds. True, it doesn’t sound smart. But this isn’t just any property. It’s the heartland of the animal kingdom on Earth. It’s the sacred land Maria herself prophesized.
“Yes, Ian. Might seem impossible,” I explain. “But it’s the logical next step.”
“Hope you appreciate you’re venturing where angels fear to tread.”
“I hear you, Ian. But if the White Lions are angelic messengers, there’s nothing to fear, right?”