Cry of the Kalahari Page 18

  Practically speaking, brown hyenas are near the top of the hierarchy in their ability to displace other carnivores at carcasses. The order descends from lions to spotted hyenas, to wild dogs, brown hyenas, leopards, cheetahs, and jackals (the last two about equal in this regard). But since lions are absent during the entire Kalahari dry season, and wild dogs and spotted hyenas are seldom present in any season, brown hyenas are often the most dominant carnivores around. They are not the shy, skulking creatures many people think them to be.

  It was late when we swung into camp after our night’s observations. Some jumping jacks helped to shake the kinks out of our cramped legs. We then tipped some water from a jerrican into the washbasin, splashed it onto our faces, and headed for the tent to sleep. I was a little indignant when Delia suggested that I leave my shoes outside.

  My tennis shoes were more holes than canvas, but they’d carried me a long way in a country where even the best footwear doesn’t last long. Each step had widened the holes a little, improving the ventilation and making them more comfortable. But for the sake of domestic harmony—and a fresher atmosphere—I put them on the flysheet over the tent, where the jackals couldn’t carry them off, before slipping into bed.

  When I got up around dawn, Mox was already on his hands and knees, blowing life into a reluctant fire. Springbok herds were stirring restlessly near camp, whizzing their nasal alarm calls; there was a predator on the riverbed. I parted the flap, slipped into my cold, ragged tennis shoes, and stepped into the frosty morning.

  The sun was creeping toward East Dune, the air dead still, crisp, and fresh, one of those special mornings when you have to get moving. I stuffed some leathery strips of biltong into my pocket and headed for the truck. We had lost track of Bandit and his pack in the bush of North Bay Hill the night before, but maybe now they had come back to hunt the springbok grazing on Mid Pan.

  Delia had to transcribe some notes in camp, so I asked Mox to join me; it might be a welcome break from his camp chores. Silent as always, he climbed into the Land Rover beside me, his hands folded on his lap. As we drove along, his sharp eyes missed nothing on the old riverbed before us, but his face was expressionless.

  We drifted through the springbok, who were nibbling the drying grasses. It was June, the cold-dry season in the Kalahari. Gemsbok, hartebeest, and herds of other broad-muzzled, nonselective grazers—those that crop away the overburden of straw—had left the valley for the season. It had become more and more difficult for the springbok to find the few remaining green stems. Like the other antelope, they, too, had adjusted their feeding strategies by moving into the sandveld in the evenings. There they grazed greener grasses and browsed leaves, some of which absorbed up to forty percent of their weight in moisture from the humid night air. At dawn they moved back to the open riverbed, where they rested and socialized until evening.

  Later, in the hot-dry season, when the relative humidity is at its lowest, fires would sweep the desert again, burning the last moisture from the leaves. To survive, the scattered bands of antelope would eat acacia flowers and wild melons—if there were any—or dig fleshy roots from deep in the sand with their hoofs. There is something pathetic about a handsome bull gemsbok on his knees, his head and shoulders pushing deep into a hole, chewing off woody fiber to get the moisture and nutrients he needs to stay alive. The antelope are remarkably well adapted to this whimsical land. Living and reproducing in large herds during times of plenty, they eke out a near solitary existence by grubbing roots from the barren soil in the severe dry season and drought.

  When we were driving through the springbok herd early that morning, something suddenly galvanized their attention. Like iron filings drawn by a magnet, they all turned to the north. I raised my binoculars and saw Bandit and his pack shagging along in rough file, headed toward the dry water hole about a mile away. We caught up with the pack as the dogs wandered over the dried and crusted surface, searching eagerly for water, sniffing with their noses at the clods and cracks in the clay. But it would be more than eight months before the rains would come and they could drink again. Until then, like the other predators, they would subsist only on the moisture found in the fluids of their prey.

  Bandit stood on the calcrete rim of the water hole and eyed the herd of springbok across the valley. Then he turned and rushed to the other dogs, touching noses with them, his tail raised with excitement as he incited the hunting mood. The pack crowded into a huddle, pushing muzzle to muzzle, their tails waving like tassels as they welded themselves into a coordinated hunting machine. Bandit raced away, leading the others toward the herd.

  Minutes later they had pulled down a springbok, and when Mox and I arrived, it had already been quartered and tom to pieces. Bandit and the other adults stepped back from the kill to let the yearlings feed first, as is the habit of wild dogs. After the young had fed alone for about five minutes, the older dogs rejoined them and finished off the carcass. Then they all pushed their crimson-stained muzzles through the grass and rolled over and over on their backs to clean themselves.

  A game of tag began, with several dogs racing around the Land Rover, using a springbok leg for a baton. Mox and I watched the circus: dancing, high-spirited gypsy dogs with rag-tag coats, tattered ears, and broom-sedge tails. Finally the sun grew hotter, and three of the dogs settled into the shade of the truck.

  The lower jaw bone of the springbok they had killed was lying about fifteen yards away in the short grass, and if I could get it, we could determine its age. I would have to collect it immediately, however, or one of the dogs would certainly carry it off. Cape hunting dogs had never been known to attack a person on foot, so, gathering up my camera, I eased open the door and stepped out. Mox was shaking his head and muttering, “Uh-uh, uh-uh,” while I crept slowly to the front of the truck, ready to retreat if necessary.

  I moved ahead several yards, and two dogs raced between me and the Land Rover, one chomping on the ear of the other. Three more streaked in front of me, one of them carrying the springbok’s leg jutting at right angles from its jaws. With the pack dancing and dodging around me, I felt a rush of exhilaration, a sense of freedom, almost as if I were one of them.

  I began to snap pictures as fast as I could. The wild dogs were running, jumping, and wheeling in hyperanimation, their golden-and-black coats a kaleidoscope in the soft morning light. They seemed totally unconcerned with me. But when I squatted to pick up the springbok jaw bone, the mood of the pack suddenly changed. A young dog turned toward me, first raising his head very high, then lowering it, as if seeing me for the first time. He stalked toward me until he was only ten feet away, his eyes, like black opals, staring me in the face. A loud Hurraagh! came from deep in his chest, and immediately the rest of the pack turned on me. In a second they had formed a tight semicircle around me, and shoulder to shoulder, tails raised above their backs, they continued growling as they pressed in on me. Beads of sweat broke out on my face. I had gone too far. A dash for the truck was out of the question; yet unless I did something immediately, they might attack.

  I stood up. The effect was immediate and striking: The entire pack suddenly relaxed as if tranquilized. Dropping their tails, looking away, they broke their formation and began wandering about, some returning to play. A couple of them gave me wry looks, as if to say, “Now why did you pull a stunt like that?”

  I looked back at Mox in the truck. Poor guy, he’d been treed twice by lions and once by a gemsbok since coming to work for us. He just couldn’t understand why anyone would be so foolish as to walk among wild dogs.

  I had learned to manipulate the pack. By squatting or sitting I could draw immediate threat; several dogs would dart forward and nip at the camera tripod before springing back. If I thought they were getting too agitated, I stood, and they would back up and relax. After several minutes of this experiment, some of the threat seemed tempered by curiosity. I was interested in their responses to my positions, so I decided to try lying down.

  I sank slo
wly to a sitting position, and again the same young dog gave the alarm. Six of the pack members strutted toward me, tails over their backs, growling and bristling with threat. They were little more than a yard or two away when I stretched out on my back, with the camera on my belly. Strangely enough this posture stimulated more curiosity than threat, and two dogs moved cautiously toward my head, noses near the ground; two others moved in on my feet. The ones on my left seemed content to threaten the tripod. They all smelled rather high, like Limburger cheese.

  I didn’t worry too much about the dogs at my feet, but it was hard to observe the two coming at my head. Suddenly all four of them began rushing in for quick sniffs of my hair and feet before dancing away. I found that if I wiggled my feet and my head now and then, they were more cautious, content to just stalk in for a whiff and then dart away.

  I was waggling my shoes and shaking my head to keep the pack off while I photographed them, and I had taken some great shots of my foot just under the chin of one particular dog. Everything was fine until he touched my toe with his nose a couple of times. He cocked his head, and his face assumed a peculiar look, as if he’d been stunned. Then he turned completely around and began kicking sand over my foot, trying to bury my tennis shoes.

  10

  Lions in the Rain

  Mark

  Deception Valley

  January 1976

  Dear Mother & Dad,

  We could not have known what the Kalahari had in store for us. All through September, October, November, and December the rains did not come, and at the beginning of January there was not a cloud in the sky. The temperatures soared past 120 degrees in the shade, and the wind blew hot as a blast furnace across the dry, dusty valley. As in the previous dry season, for weeks we were able to do nothing but lie on our cots, dizzy from the heat and covered in wet towels. We tried to conserve our energy so that we could work at night, but by sundown we were always weak from heat fatigue. We ate salt tablets like candy, and our joints ached continuously. We just existed. The sun and wind seemed determined to sear and strip the last vestige of life from the dry Kalahari.

  But if the heat was bad for us, it was much worse for the animals. There were no antelope on the old riverbed, and only a few ground squirrels and birds scratched around for food. In the sandveld, gemsbok pawed deep holes in the ground, searching for the fleshy, succulent roots and tubers from which they could get enough moisture and nourishment to stay alive. Giraffe stood spraddle-legged in dry water holes, dragging their heads through the dust in the shimmering heat. The nights were deathly quiet, empty of all sound except the occasional squawk of a korhaan or the cry of a lonely jackal.

  Then in mid-January, puffs of snow-white cumulus clouds began to appear each day, softening the harsh glare of the desert sky. But, like apparitions, they disappeared into the great void of heat that gripped the Kalahari. Again and again the clouds challenged the inert high-pressure system that locked the land in drought. Each day they grew, until they stood like great cathedrals with massive columns in the sky. As if in anticipation, small herds of springbok began appearing on the riverbed, their bodies a misshapen illusion in the silent waves of midday heat. They seemed to understand the language of the distant, rumbling clouds. The sky beneath was streaked with rain; we could smell it. Standing at the edge of camp, we willed the storms toward us, but they would not come. And we knew it might not rain at all.

  Then, late one afternoon the clouds were back, stacked closely, dark mountains of vapor growing over the valley. A black squall line dropped low and rolled toward the riverbed. The trees seemed to quiver, and we could feel the thunder deep in our chests. Lightning cut across the sky, swirling clouds swept over the dunes, and fingers of sand raced down the slopes with the rushing wind. The sweet fragrance of rain was everywhere, and like an avalanche, the storm broke over the parched desert. We could not contain ourselves. Laughing and singing, we ran from the camp to meet the stinging wall of wind and rain. We danced around, and even rolled in the mud. The storm meant the rebirth of our spirits and new life for the Kalahari. It rained and rained, and that storm ushered in the Kalahari wet season. No wonder that pula is the most important word in Setswana. It means “rain” and is both a greeting and the name for a unit of Botswana’s currency.

  It must truly be one of the wonders of the world to see the Kalahari change from a bleak desert to a verdant paradise. Through eons of time, all the life in the desert has adapted to these extreme conditions and dramatic changes. Animals and plants alike wasted no time getting reproduction into full swing to take advantage of the short and unreliable rainy season. Every living thing from grasshoppers to giraffe, jackals, and gemsbok quickly give birth to their young before the dry season begins all over again. It would be a major challenge for an animal behaviorist to describe the facial expression of a male springbok, who, after standing alone for months on his dusty midden, suddenly looks up to see 2000 females prancing into his territory.

  Before dawn one morning another heavy storm charged into the valley. Howling winds drove sheets of rain through camp, and lightning cast the shadows of frenzied trees on the billowing wall of our tent. Before long the legs of our cots stood eight inches deep in water, and we lay listening to the symphony of the thunder accompanied by the wind and rain on canvas. When the storm had passed, the Kalahari stood in soggy silence, as though holding its breath while drinking the life-giving moisture. The only sound was the pok-pok-pok of water dripping on the tent from the trees overhead. Then the deep roar of a lion, the first of the season, rolled through the valley on the still dawn air.

  We slogged over to the truck through ankle-deep mud and water and headed north along the riverbed in the direction of the call. North Pan was wreathed in a thin layer of ground fog, and just as the sun appeared over East Dune, a big male lion stepped through a golden curtain of swirling mist. We stopped some distance away, in case he was a stranger and not used to us. Lifting his head, his sides heaving, he came toward us, his bellows punctuated with puffs of vapor. At the truck he stood five feet away, listening for an answer to his calls. And then we saw it—the orange tag, number 001, clipped in his ear. It was Bones!

  You cannot know the feeling, and we cannot explain it. He looked at us for several long moments, and then he walked south along the valley, roaring. We wondered where he had been since June, eight months earlier; how far he had traveled, and in which direction. Was he looking for his Blue Pride females? So far we have not seen them, but we hope to anytime now. We followed him to camp, where he sunned himself while we ate breakfast.

  Our research is going well, and we are both in good health. Will mail this in a few weeks when we go to Maun for supplies, and we hope to hear from all of you then. We miss you all very much.

  Love,

  Delia and Mark

  A crash, then the sound of splintering wood brought my head up sharply from the pillow. Through the gauze of the tent I could see the full moon settling low above the dunes west of the valley . . . must be near morning. I looked over at Delia, still sound asleep. We had already gotten up three times to coax the brown hyenas from camp. Now they were back again, obviously tearing something apart. Groggy from lack of sleep and thoroughly irritated, I jumped up and, without bothering to dress or light the gas lamp, I stomped down the narrow path in the darkness. This time I was going to make sure they got the message.

  I could see a dark form ahead and hear teeth grating on the screen frame I had made for drying lion and hyena scats. Swinging my arms and swearing in a low voice, I strode to within four or five feet of the intruder, stamped my foot, and barked, “Go on now, dammit! Get the hell out of—” I bit off my words as I suddenly realized this was much too large for a brown hyena. With a growl tearing from her throat, the lioness spun around and crouched in front of me, the screen clamped defiantly in her jaws, her ropy tail lashing from side to side.

  We had vowed never to put lions in a compromising position, never to threaten them. Half aslee
p, I had broken our cardinal rule. Bolts of nervous energy shot up my spine as we stared at each other through the darkness. I began to sweat in the chilly night air. It was dead quiet, except for her breathing and the swish of her tail in the grass. We were so close I could have reached out and put my hand on her head; yet I had no idea who this was. “Sassy, you devil, is that you?” I whispered.

  The lioness didn’t move, and my words fell away in the darkness. Somewhere on the riverbed a plover screamed. I tried not to breathe. Unable to see the lion’s face, I wasn’t getting any clues. Her only vocalization had been one of surprise and threat when she had crouched down over her hindquarters. She could very well lash out and lay me open from shoulder to waist or send me sprawling like a rag doll into the thorns. If I moved, she might spring at me; if I stood still, she might just turn and walk away.

  Delia’s voice from the tent behind me sounded small and far away. “Mark, is everything all right?”

  Too frightened to answer, I slowly put one foot behind me and began a retreat. With a loud, straining grunt, the lioness leaped into the air, whirled around, and hoisting the screen frame high, she romped out of camp. As I made my way back toward the tent, the drumming of heavy feet and more grunts sounded in the dark around me.

  I knelt to light the gas lamp. Delia raised up on her elbow. “Mark, what are you going to do?”

  “I can’t let them tear up camp.”

  “Please be careful,” she urged, as I started back along the footpath toward the kitchen. I held the lamp low and shielded my eyes with my hand so I could see ahead. The lions seemed to be gone, or perhaps their sounds were being covered by the hissing of the lantern. I moved past our dining tent and stepped around the row of water drums. Three lionesses of the Blue Pride were stalking toward me from only ten yards away; Sassy, as usual, was in the lead. To my right, three others were invading camp along the footpath to the kitchen, and Rascal and Hombre were pushing through the bushes behind the water drums.