Predators I Have Known

by Alan Dean Foster

  “They all live in Khartoum. This is their shopping flight. There’s nothing to buy in Khartoum, so they take this middle portion of the flight back and forth to do their shopping in Cairo.”

  Sure enough, when we arrived in Khartoum and parked on the tarmac, every one of the passengers who had boarded in Cairo promptly got off. As the last of them deplaned and the aircraft sat, I was able to steal a look out the door. No terminal was visible. In the warm desert night, the lights of the capitol of Sudan glistened in the distance. Driven by a steady breeze, swirls and whorls of sand danced across the runway while a pair of guards armed with AK-47s stood guard on either side of the rolling stairway. At any moment, I expected Sydney Greenstreet to arrive in a jeep and make a mad dash for the plane with an agitated Peter Lorre in tow.

  Bathed in sunshine and carpeted with flowers, Morogoro sits at the foot of the imposing Uluguru Mountains. For days, we enjoyed Bill and Sally’s hospitality (Sally’s chicken-fried warthog is to die for . . . perhaps I should rephrase that: It’s wonderfully good), traveling to little-visited spots like Ruaha National Park. The finale of our visit was to consist of a long drive northward, in the course of which, we would visit several better-known national parks. At its conclusion, our hosts, unable to legally cross into Kenya with their little Subaru wagon, would drop us at the customs and immigration station at the border. There, we could walk across the dividing line and on the other side hire a taxi to take us to Nairobi.

  Our first stop was Lake Manyara National Park, full of hippos, herds of antelope of several species, and the oldest elephant I have ever seen. Our next was Tarangire National Park.

  Like every other business in Tanzania, the tourist industry had taken a huge hit thanks to the communist government’s inherent ineptness. Over the years, word of chronic shortages and mismanagement had driven away all but the most determined and dedicated visitors. In the course of our travels, we experienced firsthand just what a central bureaucracy can do to a previously thriving business.

  For example, in the formerly excellent hotels where we stayed, lightbulbs were nowhere to be found. Staff had purloined every one of them for personal use or resale. This proved to be true of many hotel basics, from toilet paper to towels. At the spectacularly sited hotel on the rim of Ngorongoro Crater, we had to pass a small bribe to one of the staff to get an extra blanket. This was necessary so we wouldn’t freeze to death during the night because the hotel had no heat. Repeated attempts to order off elaborate dining room menus invariably met politely apologetic replies of, “I’m sorry, sir, but that selection is currently unavailable.” We learned quickly enough that instead of wasting time participating in this charade, it was much quicker and easier to simply ask which one of the sixty-three listed choices the kitchen actually did have on hand that day, and be satisfied with that. Compared to trying to identify an edible entrée, dessert was a simple matter. We ate more canned fruit salad than we ever had before or since.

  At the Mount Meru Hotel in Arusha, the center of northern Tanzania’s tourist trade, we encountered something that to this day remains utterly unique in all my travels. Turning on the hot water tap in the bathtub brought forth an immediate gush of steaming hot water. Attempting to moderate it by turning on the cold water tap produced a furious stream of . . . steaming hot water. The same was true of the water that flowed from both sink faucets.

  Talk about your surreal travel experience. A hotel bathroom that serves up only hot water.

  The rolling hills and plentiful wildlife of Tarangire were rendered all the more stunning and memorable by the fact that the four of us were the only visitors. Having the park to ourselves made us feel as if we had taken a step back in time, to when visits to Africa were the sole province of the very rich or the very daring.

  As it developed, the last half of that description fit our accommodations perfectly.

  Bill had told us prior to our arrival that Tarangire, being less developed as well as less famous than the Serengeti or Ngorongoro, was a tented camp. Exactly what this meant was not spelled out. I’m not sure Bill knew all the details himself. But we quickly learned them. There were twelve big tents, arranged in a straight line facing distant hills.

  Ours was large if not spacious, with a ceiling high enough to allow us to move around inside without having to bend. Furnishings consisted of a small table on which was placed a pitcher of (hopefully) boiled water and a glass (that had hopefully been cleaned in boiling water). There was a small camp chair and, aligned on opposite sides of the tent and about six feet from each other, two individual cots with bedding. A kerosene lantern hung from the tent’s apex. The dull green canvas walls reflected a lack of maintenance sufficient to suggest that nothing like a preservative or cleaning compound had come in contact with the aged material since the British had abandoned East Africa to the locals back in the 1950s. In places, the primitive, heavy fabric was torn or peeling. Out the tent’s back entrance was a portable toilet that was open to the sky and enclosed on three sides by wooden slats.

  My wife, who is less than fond of camping, surveyed our other-than-five-star accommodations.

  “It’ll be all right,” I told her. “It’s only for two nights.”

  She nodded . . . dubiously.

  Given the option of staying in any of the vacant tents, Bill and Sally had understandably chosen one several sites away from ours. As we settled in for the night, the temperature remained pleasant while the air retained the freshness of the day but without the exacerbating heat. Having turned out the lantern, I used my small flashlight to find my cot and slip beneath the more-or-less clean blanket and single sheet.

  “Good night, hon.”

  “Good night,” she replied tiredly.

  Some two minutes later, a sound reverberated through the tent’s interior. It was a long, low baying, the kind a vigorous steer might make after undertaking six months’ opera training in Milan. A single extended bellow followed by a series of shorter coughs. It wasn’t unimpressive.

  Nor did it escape JoAnn’s notice. Any hint of the fatigue incurred as a consequence of the day’s long drive vanished from her voice.

  “What was that?”

  I did my best to sound blasé. “The lions.”

  Her response emphasized each word carefully. “What ‘lions’?”

  “Just ‘the lions,’” I replied diffidently. I tried to will myself instantly to sleep. It did not work.

  I could hear her moving around and sitting up on the other cot. “There are lions here? How close are they?” As if responding to a cue card, another of the large unseen felines promptly embarked upon an imposing extended bawl. As soon as he or she stopped, the cry was taken up by another, and then another. The bellowing was now coming from multiple directions and no doubt from different prides. From a traditional choral standpoint their liturgy was limited, but no less impressive for the lack of Latin.

  “Not too close,” I offered, more out of hope than knowledge.

  JoAnn bought that about as much as she accepted that I had suddenly become fluent in Swahili. “How do you know? How can you tell? How close are they?”

  I tried another tack. “We’re fine. They won’t bother us in here.”

  Her flashlight winked on. A bad sign. She played it over the interior walls of the tent, pausing briefly to isolate a gigantic Jerusalem cricket that was ascending the back wall. “What do you mean, ‘we’re fine’? Don’t you see this canvas? It’s all rotten! A lion could get in here with one swipe!”

  “Maybe one could,” I argued weakly, “but they won’t.”

  “Oh no? How do you know that?”

  “I just,” I sputtered, “I mean, they don’t, that’s all.” All else having failed, I fell to resorting to logic. “If they did, nobody would rent these tents.”

  “That’s not a good enough reason.” The light moved, and I felt her presence against me. “Move over. I’m sleeping with you tonight.”

  I tried to make room and quickly found myse
lf lying across the cot’s less than forgiving outside support pole. It was patently obvious that it was not the intention of the cot’s designers that someone should sleep half in and half out of their product. I so informed JoAnn.

  “Neither one of us will get any sleep this way,” I pleaded.

  “Fine! Then neither one of us will get any sleep. You’re on the outside. If they come through that wall, they’ll eat you first.”

  And thus was established our routine for the rest of the night. Every time exhaustion grew so complete and overwhelming that I thought I might actually drift off to sleep, another lion would verbally assail the moon, or call to a mate, or exercise its lungs just for the leonine hell of it. Whereupon a freshly wide-awake JoAnn would give me a sharp nudge and declare insistently, “That was close, wasn’t it? How close was that?”

  Four new bomas were under construction at the campsite—meaning they had not been touched in weeks. Thus far, each consisted of four walls fashioned of rough concrete blocks, a bare concrete floor, a couple of windows, a front door, and a metal roof. The second night at Tarangire that was where we slept—on the floor. And the most delicious part of our visit?

  In all the time we spent roaming Tarangire, we did not see a single lion.

  * * *

  Mount Etjo, Namibia, October 1993

  FELIX THE CHEETAH WAS THE only semi-wild animal at Mount Etjo, but he was far from the only big cat. The extensive Okonjati Wildlife Sanctuary was home to caracal, leopard, and, of course, lion. To ensure that visitors had the opportunity to see lions feeding, from time to time, a haunch of antelope or whatever meat was available would be set out. Such a procedure is not uncommon at private game reserves. What makes it special at Okonjati is that the feeding is done at night, when big predators tend to be more active, and that viewing is done not from the safety of a big Land Rover or Unimog, but from ground level.

  Below ground level, actually.

  A long approach ditch had been dug and covered with cut brush, and at the end of it is a transverse ditch like the cap of the letter “T,” which has also been covered and camouflaged. I’d seen such blinds before, but they had been built to allow quiet viewing of birds or herbivores. Not nocturnally feeding lions. When the setup was being explained to the visitors at the lodge, one gentleman from Germany raised a hand to inquire, reasonably, as to what was there to keep the lions from adding observing humans to the evening menu.

  “They have the meat that’s been set out for them,” the guide explained. “Also, there’s an electrically charged wire running in front of the blind.”

  “One wire?” the German gentleman asked.

  The guide nodded. “One’s enough. They know not to try and cross it.”

  To me this sounded not unlike the other guide’s remark about not knowing cheetahs didn’t like to be scratched between their front legs.

  “Nobody’s been attacked while watching the feed,” the guide added. Seeing that some of the visitors were wavering, he did not add “yet.”

  It was very dark. Little moonlight. Those of us who decided to go were bussed out into the bush and then escorted down the trench that had been dug to provide access to the main blind. No one asked if there was anything to prevent a curious lion from entering via the same artificial gully.

  Once at the blind, we spread out. A couple of spotlights illuminated a chunk of dead meat from which protruded a single leg. In the reduced light, I couldn’t tell what ungulate it was from, but it was considerably bigger than an impala. The smell emanating from the carcass was profound.

  We didn’t have to wait long.

  Huffing and growling, the pride came in at a quick jog. If they sensed our presence they gave no sign of it. Their attention was concentrated wholly on food that wasn’t going to run away. Females began to rip off big pieces of flesh and carry them off into the darkness beyond the reach of the spotlights while adolescents hung around the fringe waiting for a chance at the carcass. Then the males arrived. Awkwardly, from the perspective of the lionesses, there were two of them, and they both promptly laid claim to the biggest hunk of meat. One on each side, both dug in with teeth and claws. Neither was willing to give way. Back and forth, they wrestled, pushed, shoved, ignoring the staring humans in the ditch as each sought to assert its dominance over the other.

  The problem was that in their single-minded attempt to gain control of the free meal, they kept edging closer and closer to the blind.

  I didn’t know how much voltage was flowing through the single wire that was both our defensive moat and palisade. But, at that moment, it looked about as effective as a cable downloading music to an iPod. One of the Italians nervously asked the guard if maybe we should call it a night. The guide shook his head no and put a finger to his lips.

  Whether it was the presence of the electrified wire or simply fatigue, the two males halted inches from the inadequate barrier. Neither had relinquished his grip on the meat. They were, I estimated, no more than six or seven feet away. I could have stretched out flat on the ground, stuck a hand beneath the wire, and made contact with my toes still hanging over the edge of the ditch. It was plain they weren’t at all interested in us, however. What rendered the situation intimidating was not so much their proximity as the fact that crouching in the blind we were at eye level with them. Seeing a lion at eye level is very different from observing one from the back of a truck or other 4x4. Their mass becomes overwhelming, the definition in the straining muscles awe-inspiring.

  Having settled into their tug-of-war, both males had gone comparatively quiet as well as motionless. We began to relax a little. It was plain that sooner or later one male would take control of the meat and walk off into the night with it, just as the females had done earlier. I found myself blinking. It had been a long, hot day. After witnessing the feeding, it would be good to get back to the room, lie down, and relax. Except for a few insects, there was little noise now and . . .

  The lions exploded.

  I don’t know how else to describe it. For nearly ten minutes, they had been staring at each other, their faces a couple of feet apart, virtually silent as each strained to take control of the evening meal from his brother when, without warning, they erupted in a sequence of roars, slaps, and violent contortions that were powerful enough to, as the learned sages used to say, freeze the blood.

  As quickly as the eruption had taken place, it quieted.

  One of the women had started to scream, and it had caught in her throat—a sound nearly as extraordinary as the one made by the two lions. Everyone, including me, had momentarily jerked slightly backward. Time, existence, the air . . . had for an instant been stopped. Then the lion brothers resumed their silent contest of strength and will, and a number of human bodies resumed their normal patterns of respiration. It was one of the most extraordinary couple of seconds I have ever experienced, vastly heightened by the fact that it occurred only a few feet in front of me.

  Ever since, I have not been able to look at a lion, no matter how quiescent, or sleepy, or indifferent, or far away behind moat or bars in a zoo, in the same way again.

  VIII

  MEANWHILE, SAFELY BACK HOME...

  Prescott, Arizona, Anytime

  FRIENDS I MAKE IN REMOTE locales overseas or meet on the trail are wont to assume that the carnivores with whom I have encounters are only to be found in the exotic far-flung corners of the earth: in the searing deserts of Africa and the steaming jungles of Asia, South America, and India. They are wrong. My home state of Arizona is full of hungry predators, some of whom are not even connected with the chief political parties. A sampling of such creatures can even be found in the primary urban areas of Phoenix and Tucson.

  Though it continues to grow by demographic leaps and geriatric bounds (Prescott is always rated one of the best places in the United States to retire), the town where I live is still in many aspects quite rural. Much of this is due to the fact that on two sides the city limits back up against protected national fo
rest. While the chances of having a black bear stumble into town, as used to happen every once in a while years ago, is now greatly reduced, the occasional curious cougar still pads its stealthy way into the outer fringes of development, no doubt hoping to chance upon a plump poodle or overly emboldened Chihuahua that has unadvisedly wandered away from its cosseted home base.

  A live creek runs through our property, and while we have yet to encounter a cougar, the permanent water source draws a considerable variety of wildlife to its easily accessible banks. Predator-wise, I’ve seen both bobcats and foxes on our property. Nothing clears the sleep from your eyes immediately upon climbing out of bed than opening your curtains to find a fox glaring directly back at you, furious that your actions have startled the ground squirrel it has been patiently stalking among the rocks.

  Most prominent and in many ways the most charismatic of the local predators is the coyote, Canis latrans. Not, as Chuck Jones would have it, Eatanythingus gluttonus. So clever and adaptable has the coyote proven to be that it can now be found almost everywhere in the United States, including within heavily developed city boundaries. So well has it done that it has come to be regarded as a “problem” animal worthy of serious control efforts, especially in urban terrain like Southern California that favors its efforts at concealment.

  We don’t have quite the same predicament in Arizona, because the coyotes here are not especially interested in concealing themselves. In their never-ending search for prey, they wander at will through the largest cities. Drainage washes and arroyos serve as their highways. While rodents and other small mammals are their preferred quarry, a hungry coyote will eat almost anything. Even a roadrunner, except that this famous member of the cuckoo family is not only hard to catch but compared to other prey is tough, sinewy, and not much of a meal for a large canid.