by Linda Tucker
I force my eyes closed. Maria Khosa often appears in my dreams. If she were alive, I know what she’d say: “Just walk, lioness! You can do it!”
I creep deeper under the duvet, less for sleep than comfort. The room temperature in my little apartment is chilly, but I’m overheated and bothered, and the thought of falling asleep is completely remote.
It’s after 3:00 a.m. I switch on the bedside lamp again and get up to make myself another mug of soup. It’s simply a distraction, even less palatable than before. I drink it standing up rather than trying to settle back into bed. I wish I could pace, but there isn’t room in these cramped quarters.
I open the front door and step out into the chilly night. Most of the city sounds are hushed at this hour, and there are no bird sounds from the darkened trees. It would be lunatic walking the abandoned streets or the nearby parklands, so I close the door against the cold night and return to the futon with its rumpled duvet.
Come morning, I feel ready. I didn’t get much sleep, but I woke with a radiantly clear resolution: however difficult it is to raise the funds, the money has to be unconditional.
Simply put, those are the terms. Admittedly, I’ve had minimal experience in fundraising, but it’s clear to me that no strings can be attached. Hard experience in childhood with my dearly loved but highly manipulative father taught me that most gifts come with a price tag—which is sometimes more costly than the gift is worth. So the burden of receiving can be greater than the deprivation of doing without. But Mireille’s extraordinary gift of freedom to Marah and her cubs illustrated that it’s not always the case. Her motto: “Give liberally, without counting the cost.” Expect nothing in return, she told me, and you’ll find your rewards are greater than anything imaginable. I know these are the only terms by which I will represent the White Lions and their rights. As the true kings of the wilderness, no self-respecting lion should be expected to beg, borrow, or steal what’s rightfully theirs. Nor should I on their behalf, desperate as I may be to secure financial help.
CHAPTER 13
Where the Starlions Came Down
DAWN IS BREAKING. IT’S BEEN A LONG, BREEZY NIGHT under the stars. September 29, 2004. I’ve been invited back to my favorite place on Earth by Jason: the Timbavati bushveld. Nearly three months since pledging my life’s savings and signing the option the morning directly after Ian and Mireille’s respective pep talks.
From day one of the option, I began systematically working toward a successful outcome. Generally, the office hours of every day were dedicated to contacting business associates. Then, after hours, I sorted through my contact lists, phoning private individuals who might assist. Once it got too late to phone, I started listing positive leads so I could start again the following day. I made lists overnight, waking up several times in the early hours. Sleep became sporadic, and every day was progressively more fraught. As to the elusive sponsorship, I have no doubt it’s on its way. I simply have to find it! I’ve managed to stay positive, but recently I was hit by waves of tension. Day by day, I feel the tensions mounting. I am having increasing trouble sleeping.
Admittedly, my track record for the property deal is dismal. I’ve been looking everywhere for assistance, without success. Despite what seems a superhuman effort over the past three months, I haven’t succeeded in sourcing any significant additional funding. Seems I’ve pursued every possible avenue: institutions, charities, corporations, private individuals, sponsorships, and business associates, as well as friends and family. I began by tracking down everyone I know for leads, even old university and school colleagues. My appeal was always the same: the White Lions are not just a rare animal whose existence is relevant to a few local landowners; these rarities are a global treasure whose survival is critical to us all. Mostly, I’ve been shrugged off with stony, polite—and sometimes impolite—rebuffs. Why hasn’t my approach worked?
I haven’t wanted to face it, but over these past three months, I’ve been forced to look long and hard at my own relationship with money and try to identify where the blockage is, and why the funds simply aren’t coming in. It’s true, gifts in childhood always seemed to come at a price, and I developed a suspicion and aversion to receiving. Perhaps I am harboring that same fear, dreading the hidden costs associated with accepting funds. By necessity, I’ve had to start analyzing my upbringing and the role money played. It isn’t something I relish owning up to, but I’ve come to the conclusion that on both sides of my family, there’s an unhealthy relationship to money. My mother’s Calvinistic family had a negative association with material assets as the root of all evil. Of course, this poverty consciousness contrasted directly with my father’s materialistic attachment to money. Neither approach is wholesome. I have to somehow move beyond my confused childhood relationship with money if I am to succeed in pulling in the funds I urgently need for the White Lion property.
With the benefit of hindsight, I’ve realized that those constant pendulum swings between poverty and affluence actually prepared me for both extremes in life. I feel equally comfortable meeting an indigenous elder in a remote wilderness area as I do a senior advocate or merchant banker in a high-rise. Growing up, I slept in caves and shantytowns in Turkey, Israel, and Greece; I also slept in some of the most expensive hotels in the world—the Creole in Paris, the Ritz in London, and Central Park Hotel in New York. Despite these contrary experiences, I can’t say I feel at home in either. Only Nature feels like home to me.
So Jason’s invitation to join him on his lion-monitoring sessions in the Timbavati Private Nature Reserve was a breath of fresh air. That said, it couldn’t have come at a worse time: I have a back-to-back lineup of meetings with bank managers and corporate marketing managers, scheduled in two days’ time. But I took the leap, headed for the wilderness, and haven’t looked back.
In the middle of the dense Timbavati bushveld, I look around me at a very different landscape from the arid Karoo: thick, tall, silvery grasses, shady umbrella acacia thorn trees, the lush thick-trunked marula trees favored by the elephants, and those characteristic ancient leadwoods that attract vultures into their high branches to roost. This place, without the people politics, is paradise. I’m sitting in the passenger seat of Jason’s monitoring vehicle, and he’s standing on the roof, holding up the telemetry antennae, trying to pick up a signal on the radio collar of a territorial male, one of two spectacular governing lions called the Sohebele brothers. From what Jason has observed, these magnificent brothers might in fact be the sons of Ingwavuma, so they have even more personal interest for me.
Jason’s master’s study involves tracking a number of different prides through the night in order to determine the frequency of predation, and he undertakes this sustained monitoring method for as many as ten nights in succession to ensure continuity of data. Then he recuperates for a couple of days and starts again. This grueling regime is indicative of an unfailing commitment to conservation, and I can see he loves his work with a passion. We haven’t had a chance to catch up on news yet, because we’ve been tracking all night, and this Sohebele male has been on the move, territorially patrolling without much of a break.
On the roof above me, Jason tries the telemetry again now.
“No signal,” he reports.
Ideal moment to untwist the lid of a flask of hot coffee and pour us both a mug. I pass Jason’s coffee up to him and he crouches down and touches my fingers briefly in reaching for the hot mug. The warmth of the first sun illuminates the dawn, and his touch is quite electric.
“So, let’s hear your news,” Jason prompts.
Shifting his weight off the roof, Jason indicates that the male lion we’ve been tracking overnight must have settled down in a ravine some distance away, so it’s safe for me to climb out from the passenger seat. I do so to find him standing with his arm outstretched, holding the telemetry receiver, taking another scan to make doubly sure this male hasn’t come to join us for breakfast. He puts down the telemetry equipment and reaches o
ut a bronzed arm to offer me a hand up.
I’m beside him on the back of the vehicle. There’s a large metal trunk, with all the telemetry equipment, datasheets, mechanical implements, and spares as a precaution, should the vehicle break down in a tricky location while tracking the lions. He gestures toward it, and I settle down, cross-legged, using this trunk as a seat, my coffee mug in hand.
As usual, he’s wearing casual khaki over suntanned limbs. Despite it’s being the end of winter, Jason spends most of his time outdoors, so he’s permanently tanned. His baggy khaki trousers have multiple pockets, for convenience, fastened with a canvas belt, on which his radio hangs. He switches off the GPS and drops it into one of these deep pockets, then opens a carton of Ouma’s rusks to offer me. They’re the Boer version of Italian biscotti—something of a bushveld ritual, great to crunch or dip in morning coffee, particularly on an early spring morning.
“Status on Marah and cubs?” he asks, dunking the muesli rusk in his coffee, enjoying the first rays of sunlight beaming over the distant Drakensberg Mountains. He’s a strong comforting figure, athletic and bronzed in the morning light. And the strong coffee has never been more welcome.
“Well, you know I get weekly updates from JJ, which look positive, but I have some serious worries.”
“Talk me through them,” he says. “Describe your visit to Marah and cubs two weeks ago.”
Because of my intensive focus on fundraising, that brief visit to the Karoo was the only time I’d seen my lion family since their relocation there.
“Amazing thing is she recognized me—instantly!” I recount for him. “She lifted her head and stared with that soft, regal face—for what must have been ten minutes!”
“One of those stares!”
“Totally. And you know her exquisite blue eyes, rimmed with black eyeliner, like an Egyptian goddess?” He smiles. “Sure. She’s awesome.”
“Then she suddenly flopped down again, exposing her underbelly to her cubs, so they could suckle.”
Jason grins affectionately at the description. “How’s their morale?”
“They looked content, if a little bored. At least there was no anxious pacing the fence line.”
“Not much stimulation in a camp that size, without natural bushveld habitat,” Jason comments reassuringly. “But the great thing is they have each other.”
“True,” I respond. “When I was there they spent virtually all their time huddled together under that desiccated camel thorn. But I’m really worried about the scorching summer months ahead.”
“Valid concern,” Jason concurs, wiping his hand across his suntanned brow even before the heat builds up. “The Karoo desert’s not their endemic habitat, so yes, it’s gonna be tough for them. Make sure you get regular updates from JJ that their water troughs are filled. They’re in the middle of nowhere.”
“Absolutely will do. But there’re other aspects I’m really anxious about.”
“Okay, let’s go through them systematically,” Jason settles down comfortably on his haunches to listen. “First, how’d it go with the wildebeest carcass?”
“That’s what I need to speak to you about, Jase. I have to confess I broke our golden rule.”
“No human imprinting?”
“Afraid so. I was desperate.”
“Okay, let’s hear.”
Jason previously advised me the next crucial step in our carefully planned scientific reintroduction program was to make sure Marah fed on wild-game carcasses. So I implemented this, as instructed, but I was disturbed by Marah’s lack of response.
“Frankly, the exercise was harrowing,” I admit. “I did what you advised. Told JJ Marah should be denied feeding for five days beforehand.”
“Remember,” Jason encourages me, “lions have the ability to go for up to twelve days at a time without food under duress. So the idea was to sharpen her natural instincts.”
He dunks his rusk again in the last of his coffee, looking thoughtful, then adds, “You’ve gotta bear in mind she’s been fed on nothing other than processed chunks of meat until now, so she probably has no idea what to look for in the wild.”
“Well, that soon became apparent,” I continue. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget the sequence of events.”
Reliving it almost moves me to tears. I recount for Jason how I’d watched their behavior from a distance in the rented 4×4, outside their enclosure. I specifically didn’t want to disturb them or impact negatively by getting out and walking to the fence. JJ had managed to put the whole wildebeest carcass in the camp for Marah earlier that same morning without her seeing. But if it was meant to sharpen her appetite, it didn’t work. She looked hungry and thin. I observed for hours and hours. But by the end of the day, she still hadn’t detected the carcass, which had been lying in the far corner of her camp all along.
“Hmm. Tell me,” Jason prompts, running his hand across his brow again with concern. “Didn’t she pick up the scent on the wind?”
“No! Probably wasn’t much wind,” I explain. “But she certainly didn’t seem to know how to sniff something out, let alone track it down. She showed no instinct for the game carcass. Just stayed with her cubs all day—suckling them.”
“Hmm,” he says, his concern showing. “And at eight months old, the cubs should be weaned and joining her to feed on a carcass.”
“Well, the most worrying thing is she eventually took a territorial patrol of her borders—but she walked straight past the offering, without noticing!”
“Oh dear,” he comments, looking increasingly troubled. “An apex predator, without the natural predatory instincts of her kind—that’s sad.”
“I felt desperate for her. Hours had passed. I just couldn’t sit back and watch the situation any longer,” I explain, feeling the emotion rise again. “I had to intervene!”
“So you got out of the vehicle?”
“Yes!”
“Understandable,” he says, kindly. “Tell me what happened.”
Having to watch, helpless, as a hungry nursing mother fed her demanding eight-month-old cubs without any prospect of finding food for herself nearly broke my heart. Eventually, I couldn’t help myself. I clambered out of the vehicle and called to her. Her cubs were well fed on mother’s milk and dozing contentedly. But as soon as I called Marah, she lifted her head, then all three of their little heads popped up after her. So I walked over to the far end of Marah’s camp—a distance of about one length of a football field—and called.
She stood up and gave an instruction to her cubs, because all three hid behind a scrubby Karoo bush nearby, peeping out. She gave them a stern backward glance, and they darted back behind the bush again. But she came over to me immediately—as if she knew me—as if we’re family.
I was so emotional, the tears started to flow. To get this close to her, I had switched off the electrics and she must have known it. She moved so graciously and swiftly that in a flash, she was suddenly right in front of me! She was pressing herself against the fence, asking me to stroke her soft coat through the wires. Her downy fur was so soft behind the metal wires. Stroking her, I called out: Marah! Marah! Marah! There’s food for you! Don’t you see it, Marah?
But she just stared back at me with the most beautiful, wide eyes and a slight frown on her face. I pointed to the nearby carcass, calling to her, and walking along the fence line toward the offering. It hurt so much—me, a human, having to show her, a predator, what real prey is. I was trying to explain to her: You’re a lioness. Can’t you pick up the scent on the wind? It’s food, Marah, food!
But she just padded beside me, like a sister on the other side of the fence. She seemed to have absolutely no idea what she was meant to be looking for; only that, somehow, I was crying for her. I remember thinking: Will you ever be able to provide for yourself and your cubs in the wild, beloved Lion Queen? I despaired for her. And the sheer trust she showed me made me cry all the more.
“She followed me with that curious, gentle, fu
rrowed expression on her face—then she virtually tripped over the carcass, which was lying a couple of meters from the fence line. From that moment, everything changed!” I explain, tears filling my eyes at the memory. “She looked at me, then looked down at the earth again, curiously. Then, suddenly, she knew who she was! A lioness! Then she picked up the lifeless wildebeest calf by the throat, dragging it between her four paws like an experienced huntress transporting her prize. What an epic moment!”
“Her instincts suddenly kicked in?” Jason observes, “And the cubs’ reaction?”
I describe how all three were peering out of the bushes in the distance, trying to stay put, just as their mother had instructed them. But when they saw their mother returning with the kill she’d hunted for them, the little white teddies started bobbing up and down, like the three little bears in the storybook, waiting for their supper.
“Amazing story!” Jason comments. “Really pleased it worked out. Vitally important next step. Well done.”
Marah didn’t give me another glance, proudly padding over to her young ones, her powerful neck straining under the weight of her prey. After the cubs started tugging enthusiastically on the carcass their mother had provided, I returned to my vehicle and sat quietly watching them, my lion family, happily feasting. She was a hungry mother now sharing her first taste of wildness with her three fast-growing youngsters—and they were experiencing meat for the first time in preparation for their freedom.
“Bottom line is: they’re okay!” Jason encourages me, reaching out and taking my hand in his, with a warm squeeze. His hands are warm and sensitive, but practical and oversized. “What was your last view of them?”
“Under their camel thorn. Light fading,” I recall. “I could just make out the cubs, full-bellied and asleep. Only Marah raised her head to watch me leave.”
“Great work!” Jason observes.