My Pride and Joy George Adamson.
Lions in the wild lead hazardous lives; a false move or ill-judgement in attack or defence may lead to serious injury or death from the horns or hooves of their prey, or tooth and claw of their own kind. But it is their life, unchanged for millions of years, since long before the ancestors of man learned to walk upright.
According to Korokoro the lion’s roar translated into English goes: WHO IS THE LORD OF THIS LAND? … Who is the lord of this land? … I AM…. I AM…. I am…. I am…. I am!
Bwana Game George Adamson.
George Adamson was murdered at Kora by Somali bandits in August 1989.
The Leopard
Anthony Dyer decided that if he were to be reborn as an animal, a leopard inhabiting the northern slopes of Mount Kenya is the animal he would choose to be. He imagined that he was.
Last night the forest was cold and dark after the moon set, so I slept on a bed of dried leaves under shelter of a fallen tree. The forest was never silent; all night the hyraxes were merry with their echoing screams and creaks. With the approach of dawn the turacos challenged them with a racket of croaks, although it was still too dark for them to fly. I could imagine them running up and down their perches, looking wisely at nothing and all shouting together. I missed the soothing trill of the nightjars, but they had fluttered off on their soft wings to find breakfast.
Suddenly the colobus monkeys awoke, and set up a chorus of chattering calls that sounded like a battle of machine guns. The calls crackled from ridge to ridge, from treetop to treetop, a hundred and fifty miles around the mountain and back again. I was thoroughly annoyed, because I hate to get up in the morning before the sun is there to warm my old bones. I stretched and yawned, clawed the bark of a tree to shreds and then sang my own little morning song. Ahhggrr, ahhggrr, ahhggrr, ahhggrr.
The forest around me suddenly became silent.
The first answer came from a little doe bushbuck who raced off from quite close by, letting rip a sharp bark of fear every few bounds until she felt that her duty was done and all her kind had been advised of my awful presence.
Then the insults started, hyraxes and colobus monkeys vying with each other in their efforts to be rude to me. However, I am used to this and rather enjoy the screams of the mob. It adds a little spice when I eat them, and there is not one of them who does not risk being on the menu. The only time their abuse becomes a bore is when I am hunting, or stalking, or trespassing in another leopard’s territory. Then I would rather be incognito, so to speak.
I slipped off down the elephant path to my kill of yesterday. Jammed high in a fork of an olive tree lay the remains of a fine male bushbuck I had killed last evening. It had been chasing a rival when they both ran directly under the branch I was lying on. Having pursued its rival as far as the next ridge, the bushbuck hurried back to its mate along the same track, so close to me. One jump and two bounds and I had it by the throat. It fought frantically in the last moments of its life, but I am very skilful at killing buck and in a moment its strong body was limp.
I lay there without moving and sucked the blood from its neck. Even a brief extreme effort, like a charge and a kill, is completely exhausting to us leopards. Killing requires a great explosion of energy, and then we must rest. The salty blood quickly became a part of me and I could feel the exhaustion leaving my limbs until I was a whole leopard again. What a wonderful sensation is the regaining of strength!
Leopards have a reputation of being disgusting eaters, but this is far from the truth. I can dissect an animal with skill and speed. I open a small hole inside the leg and eat the flesh through this hole so that no dirt gets in and the delicious meat does not dry up. Of course, it is true that I can eat meat that is high and even maggoty, for it makes an interesting change. If I am careful and can keep my wives away, I can make a bushbuck last for five ambrosial days.
With the sharp edge of my hunger satisfied, I opened the buck up along his brisket and quickly devoured his heart, liver, spleen and kidneys. Then I buried the offal in the soft forest loam in a neat, tidy way. Not only does offal stink, but it also attracts flies and my enemies, the hyenas.
I took the neck of the buck in my teeth and easily carried the seventy-five pounds that remained of him to the nearest convenient tree. A pull and a grunt or two, and my kill was securely wedged in a fork of the branches, twenty feet up. It was none too soon, for already a pair of hyenas were hurrying for their share. Their uncanny sense had told them of my luck and they ran fearlessly to where I had disembowelled my kill. Their filthy little tails flicked with excitement as they nosed around and dug up the guts, which they tore to pieces between them.
Then their ever-questing noses led them to my tree. They tried to climb up and anger seethed within me. I fear the hyena pack, just as I must fear the baboon pack. Any rashness with either pack can be fatal to a leopard, however bravely he may fight. In the end, the pack will always win.
I suppose I know instinctively that the hyenas will be my undertakers. They will not even let my old bones rest in peace, but will crush them to splinters with their strong jaws and digest them in their horrid stomachs until all that is left are snowy white hyena droppings, strewn along my old trails. Perish the thought.
I have often been treed by hyena packs. With a pack there is no alternative but to climb as high as possible, remain quiet and hidden, and refuse to be tempted into doing anything rash. But there is a world of difference between a pair and a pack. To be treed by a stinking pair of hyenas is too much. My fury burst and I roared down from the tree, springing from one to the other and catching each of them a ripping clout that nearly scalped them. They rushed off growling savagely, and I know it will be a long time before that pair comes near me again.
But even when you win a round against the hyena, you are left with an uneasy feeling. The very breath of death seems to be all around. Every sound in the forest becomes suspicious and you can almost hear the final rush of the pack with twenty pairs of ghastly snapping, tearing jaws. I slunk away to seek some escape from these sombre thoughts and soon forgot them in a chance encounter with my middle wife.
It was a wonderful sunny morning, for I live in the most perfect climate of the whole world. A favourite resting place of mine, after I have breakfasted, is the great sloping trunk of a jogoo jogoo tree that grows out of the side of a large valley. Most sunny mornings find me lying at ease on this vantage point, surveying my domain….
As a cub new to the forest I had thought that an old sow forest hog was the worst enemy of leopards. A long scar still aches on my side to remind me of her tushes. But these great black pigs are like lambs, compared to man. A hog will chase you for a few yards and then ignore you if you leave her alone. Man will chase you remorselessly, forever. In spite of his clumsiness, his miserable teeth and his useless claws, man is dangerous! …
It also appears that man will soon pose a problem to us, even in this little paradise. So far he has not come here; he has always stopped below the bamboo thickets. But he is gradually creeping up the ridges and cutting down the great forest trees.
Classic African Animals: The Big Five Anthony Dyer.
Houdini
In 1960 nine rhinos were trapped to make way for human settlement and taken to the Tsavo East National Park. The largest and most savage bull was named Houdini because of his determined efforts to escape from the stockade in which the rhinos were confined before their release.
It was his size and ferocity that impressed the Rangers and prompted them to devote more of their time to him than to any of the others. Special delicacies were singled out for him, and after only a few days, he would accept these gently from an outstretched hand. Whenever he happened to be lying within easy reach of the side of the pen, the Rangers would scratch his tummy with a stick, and while this liberty was vigorously repelled at first, the time came when he would actually invite it, by lying down on his side and lifting his legs to make as much expanse of tummy “scratch
able” as possible. Later on, he even allowed his face to be rubbed, while a sloppy soft expression spread slowly over it, and his eyelids drooped contentedly. We thought all this remarkable in an adult wild animal, and especially a rhino, but what followed was even more so. The Rangers sat on the stockade sides with their legs dangling over, touching Houdini’s back. Noticing that he didn’t appear to object, but continued to chomp unconcernedly at his food, they then went a step further, and one Ranger cautiously lowered himself until he was actually sitting astride this enormous rhino. Even then, Houdini paid not the slightest attention, and permitted all the Rangers to take it in turns to perform this feat, allowing them to clamber on and off as they pleased. What other animal would become so docile within a short space of time? Within two weeks people could go into his enclosure with him, handle him, ride on him, stand on him and pet him with complete impunity, and this must surely go a long way towards dispelling the reputation with which all rhino seem to be labelled….
Eventually the time came when the rhinos were due for release. One by one the doors were opened and they were allowed to wander off into the Park, while we watched from the safety of the stockade sides as they hesitatingly explored their new surroundings, ambling slowly off until they were swallowed up by the bush. Some returned again at night, seemingly reluctant to leave the security of the stockades, but eventually all the inmates had gone, with the exception of only one – Houdini. Because of the strong attachment everyone felt for him, we had left him until the last.
Everyone assembled round him to bid him God-speed, patting his rump and rubbing his face, until the sun sank slowly below the horizon, and we left him browsing peacefully around the stockades.
Poor old Houdini! By befriending him we had unwittingly sealed his death warrant. He saw nothing amiss in wandering into the nearby thickly populated Teita Reserve, for he had learnt to trust and like humans. He must have been very puzzled when his innocent appearance put everyone to flight, and more puzzled yet when he lay down to rest in a small thicket near a village school and awoke to find himself surrounded by a screaming mob who proceeded to pelt him with rocks and stones.
Word travelled fast about the presence of this “vicious” animal, which was labelled as a threat to the people of the district. They demanded his immediate death, and no amount of persuading could convince the people that, left unmolested, this particular rhino had no desire to kill anyone, but simply wished to be friendly, and that if he were allowed to remain, he would probably move on and establish a home elsewhere. Finally, the allegations against Houdini reached such proportions that an order from high authority for his immediate despatch was received by the Game Department representative.
We did all in our power to try and save Houdini. David recced the area by air and on foot, hoping that it might be possible to immobilize him and transport him back into the Park, but several intervening deep ravines made the place inaccessible to vehicles. Anyway, by the time we got to him, we discovered that he was no longer the docile friendly rhino we had patted on the rump only a week ago, but instead an enraged and dangerous animal; the result of days of persecution and a betrayal of the trust in homo sapiens so foolishly taught to him by us. His predicament hung heavily on our consciences, for under normal circumstances, this rhino would automatically have shunned human habitation and would probably have survived. As it was, because he had lost his most valuable aid to survival – a fear of human beings – Houdini ended up by being shot.
The Tsavo Story Daphne Sheldrick.
An appointment at the end of the world.
Out on the Safaris, I had seen a herd of Buffalo, one hundred and twenty-nine of them, come out of the morning mist under a copper sky, one by one, as if the dark and massive, iron-like animals with the mighty horizontally swung horns were not approaching, but were being created before my eyes and sent out as they were finished. I had seen a herd of Elephant travelling through dense Native forest, where the sunlight is strewn down between the thick creepers in small spots and patches, pacing along as if they had an appointment at the end of the world. It was, in giant size, the border of a very old, infinitely precious Persian carpet, in the dyes of green, yellow and black-brown. I had time after time watched the progression across the plain of the Giraffe, in their queer, inimitable, vegetative gracefulness, as if it were not a herd of animals but a family of rare, long-stemmed, speckled gigantic flowers slowly advancing. I had followed two Rhinos on their morning promenade, when they were sniffing and snorting in the air of the dawn, – which is so cold that it hurts in the nose, – and looked like two very big angular stones rollicking in the long valley and enjoying life together. I had seen the royal lion, before sunrise, below a waning moon, crossing the grey plain on his way home from the kill, drawing a dark wake in the silvery grass, his face still red up to the ears, or during the midday-siesta, when he reposed contentedly in the midst of his family on the short grass and in the delicate, spring-like shade of the broad Acacia trees of his park of Africa.
Out of Africa Karen Blixen.
River-horses
Hippos with their huge piggy faces and terrier ears are the pyknic’s dream of supreme sensual fulfilment. They look like prosperous African Churchmen, Harlem revivalists stepping into their limousines. Most of their activities take place under water but one can hear them eating at night, browsing and chopping with the monotonous efficiency of a motor mower; their call, usually represented as a repeated long and three or four short grunts, “hosh-haw-haw-haw-haw” is mysteriously comforting.
When the launch got too close to a large family the bull would retaliate by taking a vicious chop at the behind of a smaller rival who squealed with pain but could not get away fast enough. In spite of their jovial and benign appearance they fight savagely and as a herd submerges one glimpses bottoms covered with weals like clients pulled in from a house of flagellation.
The Evening Colonnade Cyril Connolly.
Giraffes
In the harbour of Mombasa lay a rusty German cargo-steamer, homeward bound. I passed her in Ali bin Salim’s rowing boat with his Swaheli rowers, on my way to the island and back. Upon the deck there stood a tall wooden case, and above the edge of the case rose the heads of two Giraffes. They were, Farah, who had been on board the boat, told me, coming from Portuguese East Africa, and were going to Hamburg, to a travelling Menagerie.
The Giraffes turned their delicate heads from the one side to the other, as if they were surprised, which they might well be. They had not seen the Sea before. They could only just have room to stand in the narrow case. The world had suddenly shrunk, changed and closed round them.
They could not know or imagine the degradation to which they were sailing. For they were proud and innocent creatures, gentle amblers of the great plains; they had not the least knowledge of captivity, cold, stench, smoke, and mange, nor of the terrible boredom in a world in which nothing is ever happening.
Crowds, in dark smelly clothes, will be coming in from the wind and sleet of the streets to gaze on the Giraffes, and to realize man’s superiority over the dumb world. They will point and laugh at the long slim necks when the graceful, patient, smoky-eyed heads are raised over the railings of the menagerie; they look much too long in there. The children will be frightened at the sight and cry, or they will fall in love with the Giraffes, and hand them bread. Then the fathers and mothers will think the Giraffes nice beasts, and believe that they are giving them a good time.
In the long years before them, will the Giraffes sometimes dream of their lost country? Where are they now, where have they gone to, the grass and the thorn-trees, the rivers and water-holes and the blue mountains? The high sweet air over the plains has lifted and withdrawn. Where have the other Giraffes gone to, that were side by side with them when they set going, and cantered over the undulating land? They have left them, they have all gone, and it seems that they are never coming back.
In the night where is the full moon?
The Gira
ffes stir, and wake up in the caravan of the Menagerie, in their narrow box that smells of rotten straw and beer.
Good-bye, good-bye, I wish for you that you may die on the journey, both of you, so that not one of the little noble heads, that are now raised, surprised, over the edge of the case, against the blue sky of Mombasa, shall be left to turn from one side to the other, all alone, in Hamburg, where no one knows of Africa.
As to us, we shall have to find someone badly transgressing against us, before we can in decency ask the Giraffes to forgive us our transgressions against them.
Out of Africa Karen Blixen.
Hyenas
“Come, brothers!
Together we are strong
And hunt tonight!”
Or each alone
Sniff out the dying.
Tomorrow, an odd bone
Will witness a passing
Of the spirit freed.
David Lockwood
Bloody Mary and Lady Astor, leading matriarchs of the Scratching Rocks Clan, began to run fast over the moonlit plain, their tails aggressively curled over their broad rumps. Behind them ran some eighteen other members of the clan. About sixty yards ahead two hyenas of the neighbouring Lakeside Clan were resting close to the boundary of their territory. It seems that they were fast asleep, for when they got up Bloody Mary and Lady Astor were only a few yards from them. One of the pair was lucky and escaped, running for its life, but the other was not quick enough. Bloody Mary and Lady Astor seized hold of it and a few moments later it was practically hidden from sight as more and more of its enemies rushed in to bite and rend at its body. The night was filled with the fearsome roars and low whooping calls and growls of the triumphant Scratching Rocks Clan and the horrible screams of their victim.
Nine Faces Of Kenya Page 38
