Cry of the Kalahari

by Mark James Owens

  “Oh . . . my father once lived in the Kalahari,” she replied.

  “Really? What was his name?”

  “You probably wouldn’t have known him—he passed away some years ago. His name was Berghoffer—Bergie Berghoffer.”

  For a second Mark and I were unable to speak. “You—you’re Bergie’s daughter!” I stammered.

  We had wanted to contact Bergie’s family for more than five years, to show in some small way our love for him and our appreciation for all he had done to help us. But we hadn’t known either of his daughters’ married names.

  She introduced herself as Heather Howard and called her husband, Mike, down from upstairs to hear the flood of stories we had to tell about Bergie. They remembered his talking about “crazy Yank friends who had pitched up in the Kalahari, with nothing but a Land Rover, to study the wildlife.” They had always wondered what had become of us. Sadly, we had to decline their invitation to dinner that night; we were returning to Botswana that afternoon. We promised to call them on our next trip to the city.

  But we didn’t contact them on our next trip, or on the one after that. Whenever we had to go near their shop we worried that we might accidentally run into them and have to explain why we hadn’t phoned. We couldn’t understand our behavior. Though we longed to see people, we avoided doing so. Mark and I each felt the other was the only person on earth who understood this idiosyncratic social behavior, and our contentment with each other only exaggerated the problem of dealing with other people.

  It was almost a year after we had first met Heather and Mike that we finally called on them again. On a sunny afternoon we drove through the rolling green fields of the South African high veld to their home, beyond the outskirts of the city. It was very good to see them again, and they never inquired about the long lapse between our visits. Perhaps they understood better than we; after all, Bergie had spent much of his life alone in the wild.

  Heather was pleasant, but pensive. We chatted for a time, and then she explained that, in his will, her father had asked that he be cremated and his ashes scattered in some quiet, grassy glade someplace in the wilderness. In all those years since his death, she said, the family had never felt that the time was quite right. Now that we had met again, they believed that Bergie would be pleased if we would join them in granting his last wish.

  We walked through the meadows to a creek that rushed and swirled over rocks. There was a gentle breeze and there were butterflies. As I tossed his ashes to the winds, I could see Bergie’s face smiling at me; we were setting him free again.

  Some of his ashes caught on a spider’s web that stretched between tall, waving reeds. I turned and looked at the distant, smoky haze of the city sprawling beyond the hills of green. I doubted if Bergie—or any of us—would be in the wilderness for very long.

  In February 1979 we flew back into the Kalahari, our plane loaded with equipment and supplies. After several days of unpacking, sawing, and hammering, we stood back and looked at our new camp, with its five tents. The little yellow mess tent, trimmed in brown, was nestled in the center of the tree island, near the ziziphus tree. Inside was a dining table complete with tablecloth and chairs, and on each side there were orange-crate buffets that held pottery dishes, baskets, and glasses. A path wound through the trees to the sleeping tent, which held a real bed that Mark had made from packing crates. The office/ lab tent had a large working table, bookshelves, a typewriter, file cabinet, and another table, to serve as a desk. There was a storage tent with a gas freezer and refrigerator and a new three-walled reed kitchen boma.

  If only Bergie could see us now.

  20

  A School for Scavengers

  Delia

  . . . in short, we see beautiful adaptations everywhere . . .

  —Charles Darwin

  WE HAD CONTINUED our brown hyena research along with the observations of lions all during the 1978 wet season and the winter months that followed. Star was more than eleven years old now, and her once thick coat of long, dark hair had thinned, exposing bare patches of coarse grey skin. Most of her blonde cape was gone, battle scars stood out on her leathery neck, and her teeth were worn to nubs from years of crushing bone. She seemed a little slower getting up—a little stiff, perhaps—and a little more apt to rest during a night’s foraging.

  From the air, Mark found her radio signal in the same spot on West Dune for four consecutive days. This was unusual for a brown hyena; a desert scavenger cannot afford the luxury of such roots. We could think of just two reasons why Star had not moved: She had slipped her collar or she was dead.

  With the radio receiver in the truck, we homed on her transmitter on the duneslope west of camp. As we eased through the scratchy thornbush, the signal grew stronger; but there was no sign of Star. I steeled myself for the moment. Any second now, we would find her body, tom and broken on the sand, her bones picked clean by vultures.

  Mark stopped the truck, switched off the ignition, and pointed ahead. About fifteen yards away, Star’s weathered old face peered at us above a small scrub. Shaking chalky sand from her coat and flicking her tail, she walked to an opening in a small sandy mound, lowered her head to the hole, and made a low purring sound. Out wobbled three tiny cockleburs of charcoal fur—not only was Star alive and well, but she had cubs in a den only 300 yards from camp! Their dark eyes looked up at their mother, and she nuzzled them with her big muzzle as they stumbled around her feet.

  At last we had another opportunity to observe a brown hyena mother caring for her young. We feared that Patches and Shadow had abandoned their cubs because we had tried to study them, but Star was so totally accustomed to us that we felt sure our presence would not disturb her. We named the female cub Pepper, and the two males Cocoa and Toffee.

  Although by this time we knew a great deal about brown hyena feeding ecology, we still did not understand their social system. It was a mystery to us why they lived in a clan. Since they were scavengers and did not need each other for hunting large prey—as do other social carnivores—why did they associate in a group? Why did Patches, the dominant female, share food with Star and Shadow, when she could take it all for herself? Why would the clan share a common territory, if they did not need each other in some way?

  Star had enlarged an existing springhare hole for her den. Three deep trenches in the sand led to separate tunnels underground, each concealed by a thicket of acacia bush. During the day she slept in the patchy shade about fifteen yards away, and every three to four hours she summoned the cubs by purring at the entrance. They toddled from the den and greeted her with wild enthusiasm, crawling around and around her, all the while squeaking hoarsely. They tottered about “grinning,” their ears flattened and their tails curled over their backs, and Star licked and nibbled at each of them. Then she lay in one of the cool sandy runs and nursed them for twenty to twenty-five minutes.

  When they were only three weeks old, the cubs began playing outside. At first this consisted mostly of stumbling into each other and falling down. But when they could keep their balance well enough, they practiced muzzle-wrestling and neck biting. Star seldom joined in the play, but lay there patiently while they tried with all their might to bite off her ears, nose, and tail or pounced on her round, dusty belly. Unlike lion and human mothers, Star never lost her patience. When it appeared that she could take no more of their mischief, she rolled them onto their backs, and while they squirmed to get away, she groomed them. As soon as they could escape, they would scamper away and begin chewing on one another again.

  Just after dark, she led them into the safety of the den, and there they remained while she walked for miles in search of food. But since she had to return to nurse her young every four or five hours, she was unable to spend as much time foraging as the other hyenas, or to range very far from the den. This limited the amount of food she was able to find during the months that she was raising her litter.

  One night when the cubs were six weeks old, Star gingerly clampe
d her powerful jaws over Pepper’s back and carried her down the airstrip, across the valley floor, and into the bush on North Bay Hill, where she installed her in a new den. She then returned for Cocoa and Toffee. We did not know why Star moved her cubs, but it is common for some carnivores, such as jackals and wolves, to move their infants to two or three different lairs during their development.

  Whatever the reason, it provided us with an excellent opportunity to investigate the interior of a brown hyena den. Armed with flashlights, notebooks, and measuring tapes, we walked to the abandoned site. When we reached the area, Mark squatted to examine the sandy spots around the entrance.

  “What are you looking for?” I asked.

  “Tracks. We’d better make sure that a leopard or warthog hasn’t moved in here since Star left.”

  We searched through the hundreds of tiny brown hyena tracks for any sign of a new, larger predator.

  When Mark was satisfied, he said, “Looks okay. You go into that entrance, I’ll take this larger one.”

  I crawled head first into the open trench and then into a tunnel about two and a half feet high. By lowering my head and shoulders I could just squeeze inside. I pointed the flashlight into the pitch-dark. Ahead, the tunnel ran straight for about twelve feet and then made a turn to the left. I kept thinking that if a warthog or leopard had taken up residence in these dark corridors, it must be feeling very threatened, with us grunting, coughing, and crawling toward it from opposite directions. I could imagine angry eyes lurking around the corner ahead.

  Flat on my belly, pulling with my hands and pushing with my toes, I inched forward. Now and then my head hit the roof and sand rained down on my neck and back. Still leaning on my elbows, I crawled down a gentle slope, shoving the flashlight ahead of me.

  When I neared the end of the passageway, I stopped and listened. I could hear Mark’s muffled bumps and scrapes drifting over from another run. Slowly, I shone the flashlight around the comer, half expecting the hiss-growl of a trapped leopard. I snatched it back. When nothing happened, I pulled myself forward and peered around the bend.

  In front of me was a central chamber about five feet in diameter and three feet high, with hairy grey roots hanging down from the ceiling. This was apparently where the cubs had spent most of their time; there were little depressions in the sandy floor where they had slept. Three small tunnels and two larger ones led from the chamber.

  I still could not see Mark, but sounding as if we were talking in a barrel, we called descriptions of the den back and forth to each other. We determined which tunnels were connected underground, and we measured their dimensions.

  I was impressed by how clean the den was; Star was an excellent housekeeper. There was no dung or litter lying around, only a few bones, and there was no odor except for the dank, musty smell of earth. The skull of a young giraffe and a gemsbok scapula were the only furnishings.

  “Hey! There’s something biting me!” Mark yelled from the other tunnel. I didn’t know whether he meant a mouse or a leopard, but then I began to feel fiery stings all over my body. I was so startled that it never occurred to me to turn around in the chamber and exit head first. Instead, I began belly-crawling backward, upslope, as fast as I could go. Frantically pushing with my hands, pulling with my toes, and constantly bumping my rear on the ceiling, I finally reached the entrance. Standing in the sunlight and fresh air, we found that we were covered with fleas.

  We stripped off all our clothes, doused ourselves with water from the canteen, and skulked back to camp. For once, I was glad that Mox was not there to greet us.

  There may be several good reasons why a female brown hyena moves her infants to a new den—perhaps to provide the growing cubs with a larger home or to protect them from predators who have discovered the first one—but I remain convinced that, at least in part, it is an attempt to avoid the flourishing flea population.

  At two months of age, Pepper, Cocoa, and Toffee played for longer periods at sunset, scampering up to ten yards away from Star and their new den. However, at the slightest rustle in the grass—or even at the sight of a crow overhead—they always ran back to their mother’s side or disappeared into the den.

  When Star was ready to forage, she would stand up and shake herself, and then walk away without a glance at the cubs. Now that they were slightly older, she made no special effort to tuck them away safely in the den. Pepper and Cocoa would gallop after her for about fifteen yards, then they would run back to the den; Toffee, always more cautious, watched from the safety of the entrance. All three would stand silently until they could no longer hear Star’s footsteps in the dry vegetation, and then they played or explored around the den area for ten or fifteen minutes before going inside. At this age, the cubs were only slightly larger than house cats and good prey for lions, leopards, cheetahs, or jackals.

  By the time Pepper, Cocoa, and Toffee were two and a half months old they had plump, round bellies. One night Star took Cocoa by the neck and walked west through the bush. Following close behind in the truck, we saw her move from North Bay Hill down onto the valley floor, and then northward, the cub dangling from her mouth like a limp rag.

  Mark had found Moffet under the Topless Trio that morning, and now Star was headed along the dark riverbed directly toward the lion’s position. Through binoculars we could just make out Moffet’s large body lying perfectly still under the tree. Lions often stalk and kill brown hyenas, and unless Star changed course, she would walk directly into him. She might be able to escape, but she would probably drop Cocoa in the process.

  I raised the glasses and watched anxiously as Star carried her cub closer and closer to the lion. Brown hyenas do not seem to have very keen eyesight, and unless Moffet moved, she probably wouldn’t see him until it was too late. The night air was dead calm; his scent might not reach her until she was just a few yards away from him. Star continued on her way, oblivious to the danger ahead.

  Moffet rolled over and gathered his feet under his heavy body, his big head raised and his eyes locked on Star, plodding toward him over the riverbed. From having observed lions stalk brown hyenas previously, we guessed he would wait until she and her cub were within twenty or thirty yards, then he would charge. By the time she could react he would be practically on top of her.

  But when Star was only eighty yards away from him, she stopped and peered ahead. Then she turned abruptly and made a wide detour around the lion. Moffet dropped his muzzle onto his paws and apparently went back to sleep.

  Star trekked north for over two miles, and during the whole time Cocoa never stirred. The moon had not yet risen, but the calcrete shoal on the riverbed reflected the bright starlight, and we could easily see the hyena’s dark form moving through the dry grass. Turning northeast onto the dune, she wound her way through thick thornscrub. She continued for another half mile, stopping now and then to look and listen. We could not understand why she was taking Cocoa so far.

  We broke through the next stand of tall brush into a large clearing, and quickly switched off the engine. We stared ahead, dumbfounded. Before us lay an enormous den complex comprised of several great mounds of grey sand over fifteen yards long. Standing on each mound were young brown hyenas of different ages, and obviously belonging to different mothers. Here were the missing cubs, the ones we thought Shadow and Patches had abandoned. All the clan’s young were at one communal den—the first such den ever seen by humans!

  This, at last, was the answer to all the questions we had been asking for years about the raison d’être of brown hyena society. These scavengers associate in a clan, sharing food and territory, because they raise their young communally in a supreme cooperative effort to contend with the harsh and fickle Kalahari environment.

  It happens too rarely in science that, after years of effort, a new discovery practically falls into the researcher’s lap. We sat speechless. Star lay Cocoa softly on the sand and stood back. All the other cubs came forward and smelled their new denmate. Cocoa did not seem
afraid or timid, he lifted his small black nose and sniffed the assortment of cubs that greeted him. While Star went to bring Pepper and Toffee to the nursery, Cocoa explored his new surroundings.

  The Kalahari environment, with its sparse and unpredictable food supplies, makes it difficult for a female brown hyena to find enough to eat for herself and her growing cubs. We were to learn later that usually only one female in the clan gives birth to cubs each year, and thus there is a limit to the number of young at the communal den. With all of the cubs safely inside, each female is free to roam alone for several nights until she locates food that can be carried back to the cubs. Since each mother does not have to return to a private den several times each night, the clan’s collective foraging time is increased, insuring a more regular supply of food to the young. Every adult female, whether or not she has ever bred, brings food to the cubs at the den.1 And some of the males provision as well. Because they must forage alone, yet rear their young communally, brown hyenas are a curious blend of the social and the solitary, reflecting the capricious nature of the land over which they roam.

  With the discovery of the communal den, our lives took on a different routine: In the early morning Mark flew around locating the lions and hyenas, and then later we would drive to some of the lions nearest camp. In the early evening, while he was transcribing his notes from the tape recorder, I drove to the hyena den and watched them for part or all of the night.

  I took along notebooks, a flashlight, cameras, a tape recorder, a sleeping bag, fresh bread, and thermos bottles of soup and hot tea. In the back there were extra cans of food and a jerrican of water, in case I had to stay longer than planned. When I arrived at the den there were usually no hyenas in sight, and I would watch the sunset and listen to the Kalahari night fall: A jackal would call on North Dune, a korhaan would give a territorial squawk, and hundreds of barking geckos would begin their nightly serenade. After dark I could see the flicker of Mark’s campfire three and a half miles away.