by Linda Tucker
“Suspended?” I ask, still not following.
He continues, “All departmental action as pertains to this application is halted and on hold.”
“Halted and on hold? For how long, officer?”
“Indefinitely.”
I would ask for further explanation, but I’m speechless. There is no point protesting until I understand the full implications, so I thank the official and put down the phone, muttering to Xhosa after I do so. “The authorities haven’t gone cold, X. They’re cadaverous, frozen stiff.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Xhosa says. “You look like you’re chilled to the bone yourself.”
“I just can’t believe what I’m hearing! After four years—and five months and twenty-two days—of patient endurance, are we saying that Marah’s long-awaited freedom is going to be revoked again!”
“Not if you can help it, boss!”
I wish I had the same confidence. When I arrived home last night, I was fired up and willing to face any challenge, to take any intrepid step required of me to secure Marah’s destiny. Now, face to face with this blockade, I am ready to weep with even more dire frustration! I feel so cold I have to find Harold to borrow a pullover.
This threatening stalemate is creating an entirely new dilemma. I suspect that the lethal merger of hunters’ aggression with bureaucratic inaction could bar the way to Marah’s freedom—indefinitely.
I feel bewildered and frustrated, but I am not prepared to stand by and watch as all the bureaucratic doors—which I had taken such care to open over so much time—slam shut again in an instant. I have to take action—but what?
MIREILLE SITS BESIDE ME on the couch in the bedroom of her Pretoria hotel, squeezing my hand tightly. She’s barely let go of my hand over the past eight hours. She joined me from England yesterday to lend moral support. It is still relatively early on a hot summer’s evening, and we are talking through the seriousness of our situation. March 5, 2005, 9:30 p.m. It has been three months since my return from Leeds, and the intervening period has lapsed without any thawing on behalf of the authorities. Despite ongoing intensive communications and representations on my part, no further permit has been issued. The situation has become desperate, as the export and transport permits have a three-month validity and are therefore due to expire in two days’ time. Since our organization has long since provided the department with all the documentation they officially require, I have been hanging onto the conviction that the last outstanding permit would belatedly come through. We’ve made numerous appeals to various authorities. Alas, nothing. My faith held until close of business yesterday, Friday, when the finality of the situation loomed. By Monday the permit will be invalid. There’s no denying we are in deep trouble.
Though Mireille has chosen a particularly warm and friendly hotel, with bright décor and wallpaper in florid sunflower motifs, the gaiety of our surrounds does little to lift our mood. We’ve been forced into a perilous corner. With our prospects shattered and the permit withheld, there are only two dread alternatives: go ahead as planned before our two existing permits expire, or rethink everything. Through Harold’s aviation circles, a private plane has been procured for the scheduled epic flight tomorrow, a classic old DC3, generously sponsored, this time by the pilot himself. Our trusted veterinarian Tindall has agreed to fly his own plane and join us in the Karoo mountain lands, and from there accompany us and the pride on the last leg of their homeward journey in the DC3. A specialist in lion tranquilization, Tindall is prepared to donate not only his expertise, but also his fuel and the use of his plane to the cause. It is astounding. I feel overwhelmed by the support I’ve received from these like-minded people. It is partly their faith in me that prevents me from giving up on myself at an impossible juncture.
Meanwhile, no less than nine international television productions and fifty-two channels have asked to cover the story. So as not to create a media circus and risk negatively impacting the lions themselves, I agreed that only one production company—Animal Planet—may film the transfer, for Discovery Channel.
The preparations have been painstaking, and we’ve covered all bases. Jason has been processing all the scientific aspects. Since early yesterday, his scientific team has been on the ground in Timbavati, on standby to receive Marah and her cubs once we land and transport them safely home. Jason has made sure that the GPS collars, which will ensure the lions’ safety once they are released, are ready to be fitted. Even the electrified acclimation camp erected in the interior of the land has been double-checked and switched on in anticipation.
The summer months of searing heat came and went in the Karoo semidesert, and all I had for comfort was JJ’s weekly reports that Marah and cubs were doing absolutely fine—lions being much hardier animals, he said, than I gave them credit for. With the new pressures on, I dare not take even a brief break to visit my lion family. Instead, I’ve been doing everything possible from a practical perspective to ensure a positive outcome for their future, making absolutely sure that every last detail has not been overlooked for their historic return home.
Every day I’ve prayed that sense would prevail, and the permit would be issued as originally promised by the authorities. But the nagging turmoil in my mind has been building up to a fever pitch—in fearful anticipation that, despite every effort to gain final authorization, I might end up being faced with precisely the nerve-wracking decision that now faces me. Everything is in place—apart from the official stamp of approval!
Sitting on the sunflower-yellow couch in Mireille’s hotel room, holding her hand, I rehearse all the vital and necessary components undertaken in order to make this trip a reality.
In talking through the options with me, Mireille has been holding strong, radiating faith and hope. But even her tried and tested solution of getting practical can’t solve this crisis. In Swiss precision mode, she’s been ticking off our checklist of last tasks in her notebook. But having successfully been through the list, she holds her silver pen up in her hand, suspended, and glances at me again, mouth pursed in consternation. She and I have reached the same stumbling block as always: we are ready and able to relocate Marah to her rightful homeland, but we have no authority to hold her there.
Without the holding permit, it could be argued we are breaking the law. To add to our tensions, I received, just before close of business yesterday, a legal letter stating that law enforcement would be waiting for us on arrival if we attempted to import the lions into the province. The letter was sent by an aggrieved pro-hunting neighbor. Unnervingly, he’d also somehow extracted everything he needed to know about our permit situation, as well as our scheduled arrival at the local airport, which indicated he must have an inside track with the authorities.
With our list of procedures safely ticked off in the notebook in her lap, Mireille has let go of my hand momentarily to pour us both a glass of water. I am still sitting on the couch of the sunflower room in agonizing indecision. Do I go ahead with the risk of bringing Marah and her family home—a risk that will invoke accusations of illegal activity and even conceivably result in the confiscation of the lions? I think through the consequences once again. If Marah and her cubs were to be seized by the authorities, they’d be held in cages until their fate is decided. A series of court cases over a number of years would follow. Most devastating, if I were to fail in defending my case, the authorities could elect to euthanize the confiscated lions. How could I possibly proceed with such excruciatingly high stakes? But the alternative to euthanasia could be a fate worse than death: incarceration for life. After all these years of struggle to secure Marah’s freedom, could I really cancel all our meticulously laid plans for returning her and her children to their natural kingdom, and watch the prison doors bolt shut again? Probably forever?
As customary when I feel stressed, I try to calm my breathing. The pressure is utterly overwhelming. I glance at my watch. It’s after 10:00 p.m. I’ve been on the phone since early afternoon, to our advisors, one aft
er the other. My decision has been fraught with mixed advice. Personally, on gut instinct as usual, I feel ready to implement our prearranged plan. And Marianne, in full throttle, also advocates taking action tomorrow. But Harold and Ian call for extreme caution. Given Ian’s lifetime in conservation, I have to take his cautionary advice with due seriousness. Personally, I believe he understands, but professionally, he can’t agree with taking action in this case. He has put his reputation behind my cause, which other experts tried to dismiss as entirely “lacking conservation value.” And since Ian has spent over a half century fighting for conservation issues, it has been encouraging to see how his firm public support of my efforts has subdued those scientific loudmouths proclaiming that White Lions are “freaks of nature,” unworthy of consideration. Inevitably, the caution he expressed earlier is giving me serious cause to reflect.
“So, what’s to be done?” Mireille asks, in her most efficient, officer-reporting-for-duty tone. She hands me my glass of water.
I drink it gratefully. It’s a warm evening, and I hadn’t realize how parched my throat was. Having just arrived from the frozen Northern Hemisphere, Mireille is reacclimatizing, because, while I’m in shirtsleeves, I notice she’s wearing a red bomber jacket. Or perhaps she is simply preparing for battle.
Personally, I have a clear and comprehensive understanding of the options, but it strikes me I haven’t brought Mireille fully up to date, and that is the most important priority before we decide our course of action.
“Okay, this is the state of play, Godmum,” I explain. “Legally, the only safe way forward is to keep the lions in captivity. If we release them to freedom, we risk their seizure and confiscation.”
“What’s the position of our legal advisors?” she asks, standing with her back to the window, where the flickering city lights shine in.
“The only legal advisor I could reach at this hour was adamant we should withdraw from this risky course of action—immediately.”
“You agree with him?”
“No,” I say, uncompromisingly. “If security means a lifelong jail sentence for the lions, I’d prefer to take the risk of seeing them freed.”
“Absolutely. But they could be jailed on arrival. Why don’t we simply wait til we finally get the permits reissued?” she asks sensibly.
“Realistically? Absolutely minimal chance of that. And once the two permits expire, we have no leverage.”
Jason has alerted me to the fact that lapsed permits are seldom reissued. Without any valid permit, it would be impossible to move the lions, this lack of compliance being exactly the kind of weakness the hunters are aiming for.
“There’s another worry,” I add, putting my glass down on the table. I open my briefcase and retrieve the notification from Jason, alerting me to this new danger. “Take a look, Godmum. Because of the chaos over the canned-hunting issue with worldwide conservation organizations objecting to these malpractices, notification has come from the government that issuance of all permits is now on hold—for all lion activity, nationally. That means the end for Marah’s reintroduction to her natural homelands for the forsee-able future.”
“No permits at all in the whole country?” Mireille asks.
“Apart from existing ones.”
“What rot!” she concludes, deeply offended. “This means Marah and her little ones will have to stay locked up in that camp in the desert, forevermore?”
“That’s the status quo.”
“They’ll never be free?”
“According to the new regulations,” I confirm grimly. “But forget how unjust this is; we need to remain focused on strategy.”
I appreciate my dearly beloved godmother trying to come to terms with our limited options; I’ve been weighing them constantly over the past three months and know all too well what’s at stake.
“But things could change,” she suggests. “If you manage to change legislation in this country, like you’ve been campaigning for?”
Hearing her hopeful question, my heart is torn with the grindingly familiar quandary. “I’ve fought to change legislation for years now—the law isn’t going to change overnight. Even if we succeed in changing regulations in future, which I sincerely hope we do, by that stage it’ll be too late for Marah. Her chances of hunting and surviving in the wild would’ve been ruined.”
“That’s tragic,” Mireille declares, outraged.
“Let’s get a breath of air, Mum,” I say, opening up the sliding doors to her balcony and taking her by the arm.
“Surely Nature Conservation’s job is to conserve nature,” Mireille demands emphatically. “After all, conservation’s what they’re there for.”
“That’s what I used to think. But the situation’s very messy in South Africa, and the canned-hunting mob seems to have infiltrated the conservation authorities at every level. Remember the story I told you? About the attempt to free Marah’s siblings, which went horribly wrong?”
“Good god, yes!” she replies, with a rising sense of outrage, as we stand looking out over Pretoria’s lights.
I don’t want to raise this deeply depressing topic again, but Greg Mitchell’s failed attempt to rescue eight golden lions from the Bethlehem killing camps underscores my own desperation.
“That poor man was simply trying to save those dear lions from being killed,” she recollects. “After you yourself managed to rescue Marah from that same despicable extermination camp.”
“Precisely. He’d bought them, legally, and transported them out of the province, legally. He and his American girlfriend spent millions of rand acquiring a massive property for them. They applied for permits, legally. But after nine months or so, they still weren’t granted issuance. Madness. Canned-hunting operations are being issued easy permits all over the place, so why deny a legitimate sanctuary?”
“Shocking!” Mireille admits. “They weren’t doing the lions any harm, or any humans for that matter. They just wanted to save the lions by moving them onto their wildlife reserve. Somehow, the canned hunters were in league with certain officials, or so it seemed. What happened to those dear cats?”
“Confiscated.” A shiver runs down my spine. “All efforts on the part of Greg and his girlfriend to get them back to safety failed. They spent several million rands on court action. Worst is that their lions are back in the canned-hunting system.”
“Good god! Simply can’t credit it.”
“Regrettably, yes.”
As a champion for the disenfranchised, Mireille can’t suppress her outrage. “Meanwhile, all those canned-hunting hoodlums are doing just as they please with these precious animals!”
She flashes me a look. “Don’t tell me they’ll end up as trophies on a wall?”
“Who knows their future. They’ve disappeared into the system. Greg’s lost them forever.”
“Appalling state of affairs!” Mireille concludes. Then, suddenly looking terribly alarmed, she asks, “You’re not saying the same thing could happen to Marah! Are you?”
“Godmum,” I respond carefully. “We have to believe good will win in the end. It has to. Nature may not be treated in this way.”
“Absolutely! No denying that …”
Exhausted, we return inside from the balcony and settle on the yellow couch. But we are sitting in silence now, pondering.
“So, you’d rather take the risk?” she ventures, taking my hand again.
“Yes, if the alternative means life imprisonment for Marah and her cubs. Absolutely yes.”
“Would you?” Mireille quizzes. “Really? Even if freedom risks their lives to euthanasia?”
I wince. Would I really risk the lions’ lives in the hope of achieving their freedom? I wasn’t prepared to offer Marah and her precious cubs as surety in securing their heritage land, so why am I preparing to put their lives on the line now?
Time is running out, and I need to face up to this dread decision—without further delay. Drawing on all my courage, I identify two last advisors,
whose trusted input I urgently need to consider. The first is Advocate Phathekile Holomisa, the president of South Africa’s council of traditional leaders. A king among the Khosa people, Holomisa is a formidable figure in South African politics, and has been a member of parliament since Nelson Mandela came to power. As a member of the advisory council of the Global White Lion Protection Trust, his advice means a great deal to me.
“Excuse me, Godmum,” I say, giving her hand a last encouraging squeeze. “Two last calls to make.”
Standing outside on the balcony of Mireille’s hotel room now with my cell phone to my ear, I take care to explain the gravity of the predicament to Advocate Holomisa; then I hold my breath for his response.
“You know my vote, Ms Tucker,” he replies, in a regal Xhosa accent. “If you’ve followed all due procedures with officialdom as far as they can go, then keep doing what you’re doing. I believe you shall win in the end, lioness.”
I allow myself a faint smile at his bold encouragement. African kingship has always been associated with lions and lionhearted values and, as the head of South Africa’s traditional leaders, my friend, chief of chiefs, often portrays lionlike qualities himself.
Taking heart, I thank him, bid him goodnight, then pause a moment to digest his words.
The other call is to Jason. At this time, he is en route to Pretoria, driving seven hours from Timbavati in preparation for the lions’ historic flight home. Over the past few months, he’s dedicated much of his personal time to assisting us with the permit process. Truly lionhearted, Jason also has predominant Taurus qualities: strong and immovable, with a thorough systematic mind that follows through to the very end. Gentle, but no pushover, his approach to any problem, whether scientific or bureaucratic, is to apply increasing measures of perseverance, determination, and expertise. If anyone could get a permit through the corridors of red tape and rubber stamps—legally—it would be our lion ecologist. But Jason sounded particularly crestfallen earlier today, having to break the news to me that the authorities will not budge on the final permit issuance. In response to my phone call now, he confirms that he’s still on the road from Timbavati and will join us in a half hour to talk through the options. I thank him and return to the bright interior of the hotel room.