Sadly, he may never come home. Given the foxes’ largely nocturnal habits and furtive natures, the only one most people are ever likely to see will be dead by the side of the road. A gloomy study by the Endangered Wildlife Trust turned up 38 dead foxes in two days on a road to the Kalahari, which likely included entire families. They sometimes use the convenient roads that crisscross their range to travel about; along the way they discover the bloody remains of some other luckless animal or bird – a seemingly easy meal, which can prove fatal. Although very nimble, relying on their dodging ability and speed to escape other predators, bat-eared foxes can seldom dodge a car coming out of the night at 120 kilometres per hour.
There are two subspecies of Otocyon megalotis, one living in East Africa, north to Ethiopia, and the other ranging from Zambia and Angola into southern Africa. Thankfully, for the time being at least, neither is thought to be endangered.
* * *
DRAGONFLY
Long before Nature worked out how to make a dinosaur, let alone where to put the Himalayas, dragonflies and their petite cousins the damselflies were zooming about in primordial skies. The phantom flutterer, the jaunty dropwing and the Asian cruiser can trace their ancestry back an impressive 300 million years, essentially unchanged. So can the other 5,000 extant species of dragonfly, though not all can lay claim to such colourful and flamboyant names.
There was more oxygen in the atmosphere back in the Palaeozoic and some species consequently grew bigger and a whole lot scarier than they are now. The fossil record has revealed wingspans of close to a metre, as opposed to the maximum 170 millimetres sported by their largest modern descendants; southern Africa’s biggest dragonfly is the Black Emperor, which measures a relatively modest 130 millimetres from wing tip to wing tip.
With their large compound eyes, iridescent colours and a disconcerting ability to execute abrupt and spectacular aerial manoeuvres, dragonflies have inevitably created mayhem in the human imagination. In less enlightened times they were nicknamed the Devil’s darning needles. Naughty children were told that if they didn’t behave, Old Nick would somehow use a dragonfly to stitch up their mouth, ears and eyes during the night. This cruel deception is easily dismissed by referencing the fact that dragonflies hunt by sight and are hence strictly diurnal; they never work the night shift.
In another example of outright libel, European dragonflies were often called ‘horse stingers’ because they were sometimes seen in the vicinity of agitated horses. In reality, horseflies were almost certainly the culprits and dragonflies were instead attracted by this prey species, ironically helping rather than hurting the horse. Although they can make short work of most other insects, dragonflies don’t have any reason to bite mammals and they don’t sting. To provide further proof of innocence, we can call on the testimony of no less a personage than Yuryaka Tenvo, the 21st Emperor of Japan. While out hunting he was bitten on the arm by a horsefly. Before it could do any further damage, a dragonfly cruised in and despatched the irksome bug. The emperor was so impressed that he renamed the region he was in Akitsu-no, or Dragonfly Plain.
The Japanese have a particularly strong affection for dragonflies, which are much admired for their apparent fearlessness and determination. An alternative colloquial name for Japan is Akitsushima, the Isle of the Dragonflies, a name bestowed by the first divine emperor who looked down from a misty mountaintop and was struck by the resemblance the archipelago bore to the shape and segmented body of this regal insect.
Though they tend to be more numerous in the tropics and less prevalent in temperate zones, dragonflies are liberally dispersed around the world. The one vital component of their lifecycle is fresh water and they are usually found in the vicinity of ponds, streams and wetlands. The non-breeding adults of some larger species, particularly the females, may wander far and wide while males are generally more inclined to hang around a favoured body of water, not least to defend a choice breeding spot from rivals. In any event, water tends to attract midges, mosquitoes and an assortment of other insects, exactly the kind of items a dragonfly likes to eat.
Recent research has suggested a few strange exceptions to the parochial norm, notably the aptly named global skimmer. This energetic species purportedly and controversially undertakes the longest migration of any insect, a truly astonishing 18,000-kilometre journey from India to Africa and back, most of it over hostile seas. While they apparently enjoy brief but no doubt enticing layovers in the Maldives and Seychelles, the overall point of the journey remains a total enigma. It seems likely, at least, that the returning dragonflies are the progeny of those that set out rather than the original adventurers themselves.
In the dragonfly world the act of procreation varies in nuance and intricacy, not to mention duration, but the somewhat complicated method employed is essentially the same among different species. Mating begins in flight with the male grabbing the female behind the head with a pair of special claspers situated at the tip of his long, segmented abdomen. In order to ensure that everything plugs into the right socket, so to speak, the male and female then employ a sort of over-and-under gymnastic technique, which results in their combined bodies forming the shape of a heart during the actual act of copulation.
The female lays her eggs immediately after mating. Some species merely drop them into the water from the air and then buzz off. Others settle on an aquatic plant and lay their eggs on a stem or a leaf. A few fastidious specialists have a cutting tool at the base of their abdomen, the ovipositor, which they use to slit open a plant stem and then inject their eggs into the cavity.
Eggs take between a week and several months to hatch, dependent largely on water temperature. Those laid in late summer may lie dormant until the seasons roll around again. When the nymphs do hatch they live entirely under water, feeding on tadpoles, fish fry, insect larvae and even each other. Over the ensuing weeks or months they shed successive skins as they grow until finally the nymph crawls up a plant stem into the air for its final spectacular transformation.
Dragonflies don’t pupate as butterflies do but instead extricate themselves from their drab brown underwater outfit in a process reminiscent of James Bond unzipping his wetsuit to reveal the bedazzling fact that he’s fully attired for a posh social soirée. Unlike Bond, they don’t immediately swing into action as their wings need time to fully unravel and stiffen, a process that can take several hours in the case of larger species. When they are eventually ready they take to the air, the undisputed kings and queens of the summer bug ball.
* * *
BANDED MONGOOSE
Mungos mungo may sound like the name of a dubious character in a Victorian novel – perhaps the swarthy villain in a lurid and steamy tale set in the African jungle – but it is in fact the scientific name for the banded mongoose. These petite and sociable carnivores are equally adept at playing the villain or the hero in real-life dramas.
In fiction, mongooses are invariably lumbered with the dangerous chore of despatching cobras and other poisonous snakes. Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, the legendary slayer of the slithery and evil husband-and-wife team, Nag and Nagaina, set the exacting standard in Rudyard Kipling’s short story of the same name. The tale, endlessly reworked in print and film, firmly coupled mongooses in the popular imagination with the legless reptiles.
Given a choice, the banded mongoose can take them or leave them – preferably the latter, especially if they happen to be butch, black, 3 metres long and have a really bad attitude. In common with others of their species, they do have some immunity to snake venom, at least those containing neurotoxins, but they don’t go out of their way to prey on big poisonous snakes, and avoid them when they can. Small harmless ones are no problem, and are no doubt quite delicious, but true nirvana for a banded mongoose is discovering a big pile of elephant dung covered in crunchy beetles. When that happens, the finder positively twitters with excitement, thereby inadvertently attracting the attention of the rest of the foraging clan who quickly hurry over to muscle in o
n the feast.
Banded mongooses tend to form the largest packs of any of their species, sometimes numbering in excess of 30 individuals of varying ages and sexes, including up to four or five breeding pairs. Hierarchies are organised in terms of age, chutzpah and personal charisma rather than gender, but the leader of the pack is more likely to be a female than a male. Outsiders are not welcome, though Nature quietly manages to sneak in eligible young males from time to time to help stir up the gene pool. Smaller rival groups are emphatically chased away, and pitched battles occur when opposing packs of similar strength are both pumped up with righteous indignation.
Individual courage and pack loyalty is seldom in doubt; when a crisis looms, they’ve always got each other’s backs. Faced with a manageable predator, such as a jackal, they cluster tightly together, crouching, standing, doing push-ups, running on the spot – just about any communal gymnastics to convince the intruder that it is facing something a whole lot bigger, or at least a lot more complicated, than a family of teeny-weeny banded mongooses. If the adversary, such as a leopard or a spotted hyena, is totally out of the mongooses’ league, they bolt for the nearest hiding place, of which they usually have several scouted out within their home range. In extremis, they head for the nearest tree.
In one documented incident, worthy of the mongoose equivalent of the Victoria Cross, a martial eagle snatched a juvenile banded mongoose and took it to a roost in a nearby tree. The eagle’s astonishment must have been something to behold when the alpha male suddenly appeared on the branch, having climbed up the tree to sort him out. Junior apparently turned out fine, barring a few bruises and scratches.
Banded mongooses inhabit large parts of sub-Saharan Africa, from Sudan in the north, in a broad corridor across to Gambia in the west, and all the way down to South Africa. They avoid true deserts and forested areas, including the Congo Basin, instead favouring lightly wooded savannas, especially where old termite mounds remain. With their multiple entrances and exits, these are easy to adapt for use as communal dens. Aardvark burrows and any other structure, natural or man-made, that gets them out of sight and snugly tucked up for the night, can be pressed into service. On an early morning stroll in Kilolo, a suburb of Kampala in Uganda, I was astonished to see what looked like a huge hairy python rapidly appearing from a roadside storm-water drain. It turned out to be a large pack of banded mongooses, emerging nose to tail in the dawn light from their temporary digs.
When travelling from place to place the pack usually moves in a tight, purposeful column, worming over the intervening terrain until they reach a foraging site. On arrival they spread out, each to his own patch, scratching in the earth, turning over leaf litter, small rocks and pebbles, and all the while keeping an ear cocked in case one of their colleagues has an elephant dung eureka moment. Discovering a bird’s egg, a snail, a centipede or an armour-plated beetle calls for special treatment. Because it lacks the dental equipment to crack open such a prize, the mongoose backs up to a convenient rock, bends over, and hurls the item between its rear legs. It usually shatters first time.
When the breeding season rolls around, banded mongooses start giggling – a phenomenon that must be disconcerting for po-faced onlookers who regard procreation as a serious business. Fun over, the pregnant females in a given pack synchronise their birthing to within two or three days of each other. This is probably to ensure that nobody gets jealous and starts having dark thoughts about infanticide. In consequence, large packs can find themselves looking after litters of upwards of 10 pups and it becomes a communal effort. A lactating female will nurse any pup, not just her own. When it’s time for the pack, including the mothers, to go foraging during the day, a responsible adult remains at the den to keep an eye on the valuables.
Banded mongooses are known to take care of their sick and injured, grooming them and helping them gain access to food. This, perhaps more than their much-vaunted prowess in slaying giant serpents, sets them apart as diminutive heroes of the animal kingdom.
* * *
TREE SQUIRREL
The Vikings imagined a squirrel inhabiting the branches of Yggdrasil, the World Tree. His name was Ratatoskr, which translates from the Old Norse as ‘Drill-tooth’ and he was a bit of a scallywag. He kept himself busy trying to stir up trouble between an imperious eagle perched at the top of the tree and a cantankerous worm that lived in its roots. Why Ratatoskr was so intent on starting a quarrel between these two polar opposites remains unclear, though he must have had his reasons.
Squirrels are portrayed as busybodies and purveyors of malicious gossip in the folklore of many cultures, a fact probably best explained by their inquisitive and furtive natures. They always seem to want to know exactly what’s going on, spying and eavesdropping from a perch on a branch and vanishing as soon as they’re spotted. It’s easy to imagine that they’ve scampered off to tattletale about what they’ve seen or overheard.
The tree squirrel (aka Smith’s bush squirrel, Paraxerus cepapi) is true to form, living a largely arboreal existence in the savanna woodlands of East and West Africa, extending its range south as far as the northern provinces of South Africa. These squirrels are small rodents, tipping the scales at a modest 200 grams and reaching a total length of 300 millimetres, half of which consists of a bushy tail. The colour of their coat varies regionally, tending to pale grey in the west and brown in the east. All have white bellies and notably lack the white side stripes of the ground squirrel.
A much larger foreign cousin, the grey squirrel, is confined to the leafy suburbs of the Cape Peninsula. Native to the hardwood forests of North America, the greys were originally imported to South Africa by Cecil John Rhodes to enliven the branches of the imported oaks and pines on his Groote Schuur Estate. They are more or less stuck in their Cape enclave, dependent on exotic trees for their survival, and thus pose little threat to the local ecology.
Diurnal and essentially vegetarian, tree squirrels live a busy life scampering about in a never-ending and seemingly frantic search for seeds, nuts and berries, though like most rodents they also enjoy the occasional bug. The search frequently takes them down to the ground but they never stray far from a tree and will bolt up the trunk and back into the branches at the slightest hint of danger. Ever alert, they rely on their speed and agility to evade predators, and there are not many creatures capable of catching them unawares. The principle threat is from raptors and snakes.
Some squirrels choose a solitary existence but more often than not they live in small territorial family groups, consisting of a mating pair and their offspring. At night the family shares sleeping quarters, wrapping themselves up in their bushy tails. The bedroom consists of a hole in a tree and explains why the creatures favour species such as mopane, which routinely provide such accommodation as well as sustenance. The group frequently engages in mutual grooming, thereby sharing a scent, which helps establish family credentials and promotes social cohesion.
A solitary tree squirrel has to live on its wits and the advantage of being part of a family soon becomes obvious when a snake is spotted. Like birds, squirrels mob the slithery intruder. They approach with caution from all sides, working themselves up, flicking their tails to and fro like bushy whips and all the while emitting sharp clicking noises. It’s usually enough to send the snake packing but on rare occasions, assuming the serpent is slow on the uptake and doesn’t look too big or deadly, they’ll mount a physical attack.
Tree squirrels are seasonal breeders in the southern part of their range, mating in August and giving birth to two or three pups in October or early November. The young leave the nest within three weeks to forage on their own, though they continue to suckle for a further two or three weeks. They reach sexual maturity after six months and are then promptly booted out to make their own way in the world.
Northern hemisphere squirrels are famous for preparing winter larders by hoarding caches of seeds and nuts, planting them in holes in the ground and then forgetting where they put them.
This habit fortuitously promotes the growth of new trees and probably explains at least in part why oaks and other seed- and nut-bearing trees produce such copious quantities for their industrious but absent-minded distributors.
Although they’re not faced with the same extremes of climate, African tree squirrels also indulge in hoarding behaviour, taking advantage of seasonal bounty and sensibly preparing for leaner times. Whether they truly forget where they’ve put their caches is not really known but, in keeping with Ratatoskr’s dodgy reputation, they’re undoubtedly alert enough to routinely steal from their neighbours’ secret stashes.
* * *
AFRICAN PENGUIN
‘Penguin’ was originally a colloquial name for the great auk, a northern hemisphere look-alike that was barely related. Once numbering in the millions, the flightless auks were relentlessly slaughtered over the centuries for their meat and fat. The last pair was killed on the 3rd July, 1844 by two Icelandic fishermen, commissioned to commit the dastardly deed by a museum. Knowing that the species was in peril, the museum curators had decided – in the interests of science, nogal – to get hold of a couple of stuffed ones for their dusty shelves before it was too late.
If the penguins of the southern hemisphere had any inkling of this crass calamity, they would surely have wished that their discoverers had chosen a less ominous name. The African penguin was the first of its kind to be encountered and named by European mariners as they fiddled about in the fickle winds at the Cape of Good Hope in the late 15th century. Fast-forward to the mid-1800s and there was already little doubt that the arrival of men in boats had set the scene for the birds to suffer the same sad fate as the auk.
Cat among the pigeons Page 3
