by Adeline Loh
Through the ages, baboons have proven how much they adored traumatizing humans. The most bizarre and stomach-turning case I know of happened one fateful day in June 2003, when a mother in South Africa left her sleeping three-month-old son alone to wash the dishes in another room. Hearing him cry, she ran out to discover that a big baboon had snatched her baby. When she tried to chase it away, the baboon got aggressive and wanted to attack her too. Seconds later, the baboon sank its powerful canines into the infant’s head, ripped open his skull, removed his brain, climbed up a telephone pole and nonchalantly devoured the gruesome snack while the helpless mother watched in pure horror. It was learnt later the baboon was an elderly male named Rotwe that got booted out by his troop. Similar to the elephant and buffalo, it is invariably the lonely, rejected and sexually frustrated males that create havoc in the bush – very much the animal equivalent of antisocial, ostracized and never-been-laid human serial killers.
Intent on keeping my brain where it belonged, I decided not to stay for the primate invasion and hightailed it back to the room.
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Covering an area of 9,050 square kilometres, South Luangwa National Park is the best wildlife sanctuary in Zambia and hands down the stuff African safari legends are made of – divinely wild and filled with unrefined creatures that take pleasure in eating and being eaten. Encompassing a range of vegetation from dense woodlands to open grassy plains, it lies on the valley floor between the long-winded Luangwa River and the perpendicular Muchinga Escarpment. Aside from the frequent cameo appearances of lions, elephants and leopards, South Luangwa earned the nickname ‘The Crowded Valley’ because of its intense concentration of game on the banks of Luangwa River and its oxbow lagoons. Despite its incredible potential, the national park remains overlooked by the truckloads of binoculars-toting tourists that throng Tanzania and Kenya. Good – that meant the wildlife here hadn’t been annoyed by humans to the point that they would want to kill us. I think.
All dressed up and raring to go, Chan and I joined four other guests at precisely 1600 hours for our very first game drive around the Mfuwe sector, the most popular and heavily explored area in the park. Major, our amiable driver-cum-safari guide, shook our hands and greeted us with a shiny smile, the lines on his face crinkling with 30 years of tracking experience in the natural world. That alone assured Chan and me enough to climb up the ladder of Major’s open-top Toyota Land Cruiser, which had no roof and no windows, so there was nothing to stop anything that wanted to spring in and swallow us. You see, Zambia doesn’t have those namby-pamby restrictions that other African countries do, where tourists have to be caged in vehicles like a mobile human zoo. No, ’tis infinitely better to risk being clawed senseless than look like paranoid dorks. The two of us sat on the lowest of the three rows of elevated bench seats because we didn’t want to have our heads severed by an approaching branch when we were driving under trees. Next to Major sat the eagle-eyed spotter who was in charge of operating the spotlight for the after-dark portion of the drive.
Taking my cue from the other passengers, I hung my binoculars limply around my neck so that it’d be easy to grab at the first sign of movement. Because out here in the open savannah, you had to be quick on the draw or fleeting glances of fleeing bottoms were all you’d catch – albeit magnified 25 times.
It was apparent from the outset how untrained our myopic, computer-zapped eyes were when it came to animal-spotting. Time and time again, Major impressed me with his ability to identify a nondescript black dot on the horizon and convey what species it was with his naked eyes, while adeptly steering the vehicle away from a collision course with trees. Once an ID was made, we would lift our binoculars to make out and confirm the sighting. Quite often he would see a creature stir in complete camouflage and anonymity, stop the jeep to give us the lowdown of what we were gawping at, and allow us a couple of minutes to dwell on its strange markings and distinguishing features before starting the engine again.
Being a safari guide in Africa is no joke. The candidate has to undergo intensive study and pass extremely difficult examinations for a couple of years. In that time, the candidate is required to not only accumulate exhaustive knowledge of African wildlife and bush survival skills, but also be able to get that information across and transmogrify into a mechanic, chef or paramedic faster than a crocodile’s jaw can snap.
Bouncing along the well-marked track, Major leant over his door with a finger pointing down at the trail while muttering something I could not decipher above the din of the engine and dirt crunching beneath the tyres. Then I heard it – fresh lion tracks! Pulsating with anticipation, I too peered down to track the spoors like an animal detective. I told Chan, who pretended to be excited.
Although the lion eluded us for now, there was more than enough wildlife to keep our eyes bulging. Going on safaris usually involved the occasional disappointment of seeing nothing for a whole day, but we were spoilt for choice here. Without question, the most prolific sightings were the park’s resident antelopes: impala and puku. I found it hilarious to see the aristocratic impalas foraging fastidiously like it was a six-course dinner, only to spit the grass out in panic and skitter for their lives whenever we roared through. And did the chestnut brown creatures know how to escape in style – prancing and contorting their legs high in the air like ballerinas on steroids, completely defying gravity.
In fact, the game drive was fast turning into an artful evening of antelope butt appreciation, as the bloody animals just refused to keep still. We examined many fleeing rumps of shy bushbuck and greater kudu, but my personal favourite ass is that of the waterbuck, whose backside is marked with a bizarre white ring that seemed like the result of spending many hours on the toilet seat. I could relate to that.
‘Pukus are much dumber than impalas, you know,’ said Major candidly. ‘When the impala is long gone at the first sign of danger, the puku is still standing around figuring out what to do.’ His point was amazingly proven when we came upon another herd of pukus. Rather than curling up their tails at us and taking their grazing elsewhere, they unthinkingly stood there staring at us wide-eyed. With a bamboozled expression perennially plastered on their faces, they trotted off a few metres half-heartedly with their necks craned back to see if we were up to no good. It was like they were racking their brains thinking whether to dash or continue nibbling. We spared them a nervous breakdown and trucked on.
There was always something happening, if not on the ground then in the air. ‘You can stop me if you see something interesting,’ offered Major graciously. The offer was excellent for me but detrimental to the other passengers. Like a dorky twitcher, I took full advantage, tapping his shoulder and pointing out some unreasonably wonderful creature of flight that I had never seen before – which was every single bird we encountered.
But after asking Major, ‘What bird is that?’ for the eleventh time in under 15 minutes, his replies became increasingly curt. Also, nobody else in the vehicle appeared to be particularly enthusiastic about our feathered friends acrobatically hunting on the wing. I realized if I didn’t stop being the most irksome person in the vehicle, I might get ‘accidentally’ pushed off in the direction of some hyenas. So I resigned myself to a state of vague ignorance every time we came across a flying critter and clammed up. After all, an astonishing 791 bird species occur in Zambia, more than half of which call South Luangwa home – how else were we ever going to have time to see other animals if I kept halting the vehicle every few seconds?
Nonetheless, more aerial creatures beckoned at the defined banks of oxbow lakes where small fishing frat parties were thrown. The strikingly marked saddle-billed stork, which has a red-and-black bill and black-and-white body, jabbed at flapping fish in a mud pool while herons harpooned insects. But out of the multitudes of eye-catching, dignified waders, the large marabou stork captivated me the most. It’s the ugliest, most ghastly bird you will ever see in your life, with a clunky bill, grubby head and the back of its dirty
pink neck riddled with short sparse hairs. Still, the moment I laid eyes on the scavenger dining on the rotting dead and pooping on its own legs to cool off, I knew I was in love with Zambia.
As we lumbered deeper along the safari loop and splashed through a drying riverbed, extensive grasslands revealed their mysterious depths to us. While most wily animals snuck around under the convenient cover of scraggly savannah scrub, the park’s endemic star residents, Thornicroft’s giraffes, presented themselves with their dignified heads held high. South Luangwa’s national park status has these sweet creatures to thank, for it was their abundant presence that galvanized the authorities to protect this marvellous wildlife sanctuary. What distinguishes the Thornicroft’s giraffe from the more common breeds is its unique ragged, polygon dark brown spots and lack of blotches below the knee.
We were rapt in admiration as five snobbish long-necks roamed around contentedly, batting the longest eyelashes in the animal kingdom and flicking a frighteningly long and dexterous blue-black tongue (20 inches – beat that, Gene Simmons of KISS). They seemed smug in the knowledge that they had exclusive access to the highest and choicest cuts of their favourite snack, young acacia leaves – the exquisite taste of which short creatures would never know. That was until an envious elephant came along and uprooted the tree.
More puku, bushbuck and impala acted as if they were stepping on hot coals when we closed in, to the emerald-spotted wood-dove’s mournful call that sounded amazingly like, ‘My mother is dead, my father is dead, and all my children are dead, what do I do, what do I do ...’ With my senses overwhelmed by a hodgepodge of flashing patterned fur, unbelievably flexible trunks and galloping hoofs, I had failed to notice the hours fly by. By now the drooping sun had elongated the shadows of trees and the environs were bathed in a golden yellow. To savour this astoundingly beautiful time of day, Major pulled up at a scenic spot on a craggy escarpment overlooking the lovely Luangwa River. Right away I was struck with a startling realization – there was no escape from hippos. Dotting the landscape in every direction I turned – be it a lagoon, a riverbank or a dambo (seasonally marshy depression) – were dark grey bulbous shapes reminiscent of overturned bathtubs.
Just as we yanked our sundowners from the cooler box, a parade of nine dehydrated elephants came looking for a drink as well. Led by a hulking matriarch, the big tuskers trudged down a steep, sandy incline to the river. At the shoreline they dipped their trunks in and sucked up the water greedily, on average about four litres at a time, before squirting it into their mouths. According to Major, an elephant guzzles up to 120 litres of water per day – that’s enough water to last a human for two whole months. On top of that, the gentle giant has to eat 150 kilos of greens to upkeep its enormous figure. Hence nothing shouts ‘elephants were here!’ better than the trail of devastation they happily leave in their wake: denuded grasslands, demolished trees, trashed bushes, shredded branches, haphazard mud smears on trees and, oh, more than 100 kilos worth of dung. A large herd of famished elephants feeding together in one area could well do the job of a hundred lawnmowers, reducing dense woodlands to barren plains.
We watched the pachyderms of various ages dunk themselves before they forded across the river in Indian file. The three adorable progeny struggled to hoist their trunks in the air like the adults as they waded deeper into the water, until nothing could be seen of them save a couple of ‘snorkels’. As if on cue, a corps of Thornicroft’s giraffes soon arrived at the sandbank and formed a circle with their backs to each other, each neurotic individual looking out in different directions like an edgy SWAT team.
Sixteen full-grown hippos lounging in slothful glory then rose up, unanimously agreed that they’d met their ultraviolet radiation quota for the day and pondered aloud how much fun it’d be if they all rushed into the river at once. As 10,000 kilos of collective blubber hit the water, an almighty crash echoed through the valley, followed by a miniature tsunami that threatened to empty the diminishing Luangwa River. Hippos are built to boggle; on land, they waddle like sumo wrestlers but in the water, they move weightlessly like ballet dancers.
Zambia’s national bird, the African fish eagle, snatched my attention away from the tubs of lard as my eyes followed it over the river to a perch on a nude branch. With a haunting scream, the sky assassin turned its blazing white head sideways and looked daggers at prey swimming beneath the surface. After homing in on a luckless target, the fish eagle unfurled its imposing wings and swooped down with talons outstretched for a brilliantly executed kill.
Munching on delectable little treats and letting the last drop of orange cordial slide down my throat, I stared entranced at the confounding heather cloudscapes caused by the sun buckling below the horizon.
Major snapped me back to my senses soon enough. ‘All right ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, we’ll be setting off on our night drive now. It’s going to be cold and windy so cover up.’
Yes! This was the moment I’d been salivating over – hunting the hunters. We enthusiastically unknotted a salmagundi of polyester jackets and hoodies from our waists, and the expert spotter broke out the spotlight. By the time everyone clambered back inside the vehicle, the sky had turned pitch-black. Our vision was now limited to the circular confines of the roving spotlight and the air became impregnated with the slightly sulphuric scents of excitement and intrigue. My head swam with wild images of an ill-fated antelope receiving the choke of death from a cheetah or lion.
I followed the movement of the powerful spotlight as if it were a frenetic ball in a tennis match: left, right, up, left, down until I got cross-eyed. Reflective eyeshine was the order of the night – the only sign we had that some kind of nocturnal creature was hiding behind the tall grass, across the far open plains or up in a tree. A zillion twinkling eyes looking straight back at the spotlight meant the usual boring herd of impalas or pukus so they were largely ignored. The fifth group of pukus we encountered, however, were acting peculiar – they weren’t gazing back at the spotlight with those curious Bambi eyes. They had frozen motionless, fixated on something else in the opposite direction.
‘Something’s going on over there. The baboons are calling out a warning!’ said Major, sensing a vicious predator close by. I perked up my ears and heard the wound-up baboons’ raspy alarm calls: squawking and barking sounds reminiscent of chesty coughs. My heart’s pumping speed matched Major’s acceleration towards a wide clearing as he tried to get past the beefy trees obscuring the pukus.
Pulling in at an unobtrusive spot with a clear view of the stressed-out pukus, Major shut the engine down and turned the headlamps off. As the spotlight attempted to suss out the situation, we observed and listened in black-hole silence. The pitiful pukus were patently jittery, as if they had overdosed on caffeinated berries. It was not long before the spotlight finally revealed what was spooking them: a stalking lioness slowly emerging from a bush and making her way closer to her intended victims out in the open. I got terribly excited. However, just as I thought I was going to see some blood and guts, the spotlight was killed abruptly. It was like an anti-climactic television commercial cutting into a soap-opera cliffhanger. Or a friend that says, ‘Hey babe, have I got some hot and juicy gossip for you!’ and when you ask what it is, she goes, ‘Mmm, forget it. It’s nothing.’ Aarrgh, if only I had some popcorn to pelt the spotter with.
But no, even though it sucked, there was a good reason for bringing the curtains down prematurely. According to the spoilsports, humans shalt not disturb the natural order of the hunt. If we provided the animals with artificial light, the pukus may be alerted to the lioness’s presence and ruin her surprise attack. The spotlight could potentially blind and disorient both parties as well. And being fence sitters, we could not give an unfair advantage to either predator or prey. No loud booing or Mexican waves, either.
Swathed in a blanket of darkness and the pukus’ faint padding, I stiffened in my seat as my imagination ran amok to the killing soundtrack. A shrill
cacophony of puku alarm calls rang out, followed by the mad crash of panicked hoofs in the grass. The snarling lioness erupted in chase, her heavier footfalls furiously pounding the semihard ground. It was only a matter of time before she clamped down on a choice puku rump with her claws.
But the death squeal I was waiting for was slow in coming. All I could hear was the ravenous beast panting. In less than five minutes, the clatter of hoofs had all but dissipated in the distance. And just like that, it was all over. The spotlight was flipped on and we found the dejected lioness three feet away from my side of the vehicle. She’d failed to catch supper and was idly sauntering towards us.
‘Oh no, its going to jump in and eat us instead!’ Chan whispered with a clear quiver and nervously pulled at my sleeve. I smacked her hand and shushed her. But really, I was just as afraid as her – the lioness’s opportunity to have a meal was still there as long as we were dumb enough to stick around.
Suddenly, three adolescent cubs strolled into the limelight. It then dawned on me that Mum was giving them a hunting lesson. Tonight’s topic was probably ‘How to Starve’. With disappointment written all over their faces, the despondent offspring formed a line behind their mother and tailed her back to the lair. Aww.
Flashes of light went off as a few dozen tourists snapped away to capture the beautiful golden beasts for their vacation photo albums. By now, four other safari vehicles had joined us and it was feeling like safari rush hour. In a battle to see which driver got their clients the best vantage point, Major kick-started the engine and zoomed to another clearing where the lions were headed to. Needless to say, we were in the best position to garner some award-winning full frontal animal shots.
