by Linda Tucker
With these images in mind, I know I’m in danger of losing my resolve. And I know that if I waver, there is no chance of bringing my advisors around to the validity of my position.
My head is aching. I took two aspirin before the trustees meeting and wonder whether I should take another. What on earth was motivating me to pursue this course of action against well-reasoned opposition from my advisors?
That’s just it! Suddenly I see it clearly. It is not a rational decision. Cold, hard logic is not going to win this day. The information I received came directly from higher council—it required faith and inner knowing. Therefore, it is higher council I should be calling upon to assist me right now and to intervene where I failed.
Suddenly, I see Maria Khosa’s face as clear as day. She is beside me. And beside her, I see my beloved Lion, Ingwavuma, proud and immensely regal—with a kind and kingly smile on his face. They are with me!
“I summon you, Guardian Lion, upon this day,” I command under my breath. “Be with my earthly council. Enter into this meeting and reach all those who are gathered around the table that they might hear their own lionhearts and act to ensure the highest and best outcome.”
I feel the life force reenter every cell of my body and a calm descend. I catch the figure of Harold on his balcony, looking slightly agitated. Recess is over.
I stride over to the building and into the elegant conference room. The group has reconvened. There is a general silence, broken only by the rustling and reshuffling of the papers of the day’s agenda.
I decide to bring the question to a close by simply explaining, “In respect to the fencing issue, I have no further argument, except to say: what I’ve proposed is my best council.”
In my inner vision, I can clearly see Ingwavuma padding around the table passing each and every person there and activating their true lionhearted natures. He has just passed Coenraad Jonker when I hear the words “You have my vote of confidence.”
This from one of the most ruthlessly strategic lawyers in our country.
One of those spine-tingling moments, as if my mane hair at the base of my neck is standing on edge. I catch his gaze in silent acknowledgment.
“If I didn’t trust my instinct,” he continues, “I’d never have survived hardcore litigation. Been eaten alive, time and again. So I say: if your instinct is telling you to take this course of action, Linda—even if it’s risky—just do it.”
Ingwavuma passes Harold.
“Dead right,” he concurs. “Trust your gut. It’s served you before.”
Thembi nods her approval.
I glance at Marianne. Still striking her dubious pose, she is shaking her head to indicate high risk. But the words coming out of her mouth are actually—finally—granting approval!
“Okay,” she instructs, as she gathers up her papers and prepares to hit the Johannesburg traffic. “Get onto the fencing contractors tomorrow—first thing. Let’s get the show on the road.”
CHAPTER 15
Law of Miracles
IT’S TWO WEEKS SINCE THE WATERSHED TRUSTEES MEETING. While I don’t want to take my focus off the fundraising drive for a single moment, I have something urgent to do. Beside the fortress gates is a military-style guard hut and a sign that shows a skull and crossbones, a dog with bloodstained teeth, a shotgun, and a set of handcuffs. As if these sinister warnings aren’t enough, the sign also reads: Trespassers Will Be Shot.
I’m on the borders of Timbavati, about to enter the premises of the most notorious canned-hunting operation in South Africa. It feels like I’m one step closer to the end destination for Marah’s freedom, yet a million miles away.
Inside the car with me are Lucia van der Post, a well-known British journalist; Tom Stoddart, an award-winning photojournalist; and Baba Mathaba, a distinguished Swazi medicine man in full ceremonial garb. The London Times wanted to do a story on my work with the White Lions, so I forced myself to endure the experience of filming here—in the hope that the article will be helpful in exposing the plight of these critically endangered animals, and hopefully even bring a funder in time for the option deadline.
Bizarrely, this place is open to the public. Since canned hunting is still legal in South Africa, public visits are just another means by which the canned hunter can gain more income for his activities. I’d heard visits to this place are a big attraction for foreign tourists, but mine was the only vehicle waiting for entry.
At a gesture from the guard in his watchtower, I pay the entrance fee through a slot. The electronic gates open slowly, and the guard indicates for me to proceed. I drive down the gravel pathway and pull the vehicle into the concrete parking lot, hesitating a moment before getting out. The Bethlehem canned-hunting camp was a nightmare in the extreme, but I anticipate this will be worse. This is where it all began, where the grand scheme of capturing and breeding Africa’s most sacred animals was masterminded and executed. Bethlehem copied this grim prototype, and with the heady smell of blood money, many other canned-hunting operations are likely to follow. But this bleak, militaristic stronghold is where the master plan of breeding the rarest of animals by hand, in cages, in order to kill them, was first configured.
Stepping out onto the concrete parking lot, my body starts to shake like Jell-O. I’m picking up an intense pain and anguish in the atmosphere and I’m chilled to the bone. The last time I experienced this degree of residual denseness was when I visited Dachau, the Nazi concentration camp.
I glance back at the photographer, Tom Stoddart, at the open trunk, preparing his gear. He’s a well-known war photographer who has spent his life filming in active war zones, even surviving a mortar attack in Sarajevo. When the London Times commissioned him for this assignment, he had just returned from behind the firing line in Baghdad. His first comment when he and I were introduced yesterday at the Johannesburg airport was that he was really looking forward to a break, as he viewed this shoot as a kind of soft “women’s” story about a former model playing with White Lions in Africa. I wonder how his view will change after he’s finished here.
We’d heard the canned hunter has a violently explosive temper, and a particular hatred for media, especially after the The Cook Report exposed some of the malpractices taking place here. So the photographer and I decided our best approach today was to appear to be ordinary visitors and to keep the camera equipment to a minimum.
I feel an involuntary shudder. It’s bad enough being filmed in a nightmarish place like this, but what adds to my tension is the presence of Baba Mathaba, seated proud and upright in the back of the car. This powerful traditional healer is one of my mentors, and I visited him last night to set my intention for this important shoot. But when he heard my destination was to visit a dreaded canned-hunting camp, he was determined to join me, so that he might do a ceremonial blessing of protection for the incarcerated lions.
From Maria Khosa’s training, I appreciate the importance of such rituals and their far-reaching effects. However, I didn’t think it was wise to bring this imposing elder into such a hostile land, where his color would certainly be an issue and where his conspicuous ceremonial dress could cause a riot. The canned hunter is a notorious racist, known to shoot randomly at people he considered trespassers. I tried to dissuade Baba Mataba, but my protestations did nothing to deter him. The distinguished elder was adamant about accompanying me to the site where the White Lions were held hostage. So my best compromise was for him to stay in the car, with the journalist, Lucia van der Post, where he would work in prayer with the lions, while the photographer and I kept our grim visit as short as possible.
Tom and I head off to the farmhouse, which looks more like a military barracks than a family home. We come upon cage after cage of depressed, blank-eyed big cats on display for public viewing. This is where a magnificent, free-roaming White Lion male was imprisoned after being drugged and dragged into a pickup truck, and where he spent the rest of his life in a cage, breeding a royal bloodline, all awaiting execution.
All the tiny cubs are crammed together in a cage no larger than a dog kennel. They have been removed from their mothers and are crawling over each other, with void, unfocused eyes. Instantly, I relive Marah’s laser-sharp gaze, which reaches right into my soul. I want to weep. What do other people think when they come to a place like this? Can paying visitors be so thick-skinned as to witness this acute suffering as if it were Disneyland?
Tom asks me to pose with the cages of baby lions, which is what any visitor would do, but I notice a shadowy figure barely visible at the nearby barracks.
“One more session,” he instructs. “Over there, with the bigger lions.”
There is another cage, with a group of subadults, looking so miserable and undernourished that my heart shrinks in despair. I can’t tell whether their condition is the consequence of negligent nutrition or active inbreeding, but I’ve never encountered more unhappy animals in my life.
After a series of shots, Tom decides that he can conclude his shoot without me and will wrap up quickly. I leave the incarcerated animals behind with their hauntingly brave, sad faces and return to the parking lot. I’m hoping to join Baba Mataba and Lucia there, but as I walk toward them, I notice two trucks pull in, carrying armed troops. The soldiers are dressed in full combat gear. Virtually all are blond, in the tradition of the Hitler Youth. Bizarrely, the sides of both trucks are painted with an inscription in red: South African Army. I stop midstride, frozen, in the center of the parking lot. Something’s wrong. Since this is after the fall of Apartheid, these Aryan troops in army gear certainly aren’t ANC national forces. This is the canned hunter’s private army. I avoid looking in Baba Mathaba’s direction so as not to draw attention to his arresting figure in the back of my car. I have to rely on the medicine man to remain obscure there, so my best bet is to actively engage with the vehicles, which are pulled up beside me.
“Where’re you taking the troops?” I ask the driver of one truck, also in military uniform.
“Combat training. For a break we’re gonna see the trophy lions,” he responds, as if this were normal.
He’s ready to pull the vehicle out again but ends with his version of polite conversation, “You been to see the cubs? Cute, eh?”
“Yes …” I respond, knowing all too well these will be cannon fodder in time.
I wait for the trucks to disappear in the direction of the hunting camps before going over to my parked vehicle. I am about to open the door when Tom approaches, fast. He looks wrecked, a bag of nerves.
“You okay?” I ask him.
“Not at all.”
He starts hurriedly loading his equipment back into the trunk of the car, speaking double-time. “Need to get outta here, fast. I know this feeling only too well—in my bones. Same feeling I had in Sarajevo … just before the mortar exploded. The last thing I remember—”
I’m with him: we need to leave—now. But instead of erasing this memory, I am going to ensure this grim experience drives every day of my life from this day forward, until Marah roams free in her ancestral lands and her White Lion family are protected by international law.
BLACK MONDAY. NOVEMBER 25, 2004. Three weeks after the visit to the canned-hunting camp. The option is days from closing, but we appear no closer to our goal. I’m inside my office in Harold’s garden premises, staring at the mountains of meaningless papers on my overcrowded desk. A graveyard of failed prospects and dead ends. As for the fencing contractor, I didn’t delay for a moment in bringing him in. With full-on focus on fundraising efforts, I was unable to oversee this complex labor-intensive process myself, but once again, Jason generously volunteered his time and expertise. Based in Timbavati, he took time off his study to assist. First the high-rise, predator-proof, electrified fence around the property’s perimeter was constructed. Then, deep in the interior of the property, Jason erected a second fenced camp with quality diamond mesh, designed specifically for the lions and their requirements. He chose an ideal location for Marah and her family—a lovely wooded area, quite extensive, with several thickets of indigenous trees, several of them huge and shade-giving. The internal area is secure and electrified and would be perfect for temporarily housing Marah’s pride directly after their arrival.
But as each pole was sunk these past few weeks, and each wire was tensioned, strand by strand, all I could think of was the sand in the hourglass, running out.
I sit at my desk with the checkbook in hand, and my pen hovering before signing off the last installment for the fencing, knowing once this check is cashed, the very last component of the anonymous donation will have been used up.
I pause, momentarily paralyzed, then sign off and place the check in an envelope before sealing it.
With the option nearly expired, our opponents must be celebrating their imminent takeover of Marah’s property. Although Jason clearly thought twice before relaying this information, so as not to discourage me, the local hunting mob has been toasting their success for several weeks now—downing pints of lager at The Fort. They took the measure of me a while back. But last week, Jason overheard the hunters drunkenly pronouncing there isn’t a hope in hell of “Tucker and her motley crew of New Age bunny huggers” raising the bucks.
I look up from my crowded desk to see one of these bunny huggers arriving, padding over to give me a warm hug of greeting. Xhosa has a characteristic musical jaunt in his step and a particularly huggable, bearlike frame. A young Nguni man in dreadlocks, he painstakingly perused the four hundred pages of my book Mystery of the White Lions and, together with his university colleagues, decided these iconic animals would be the route to reviving the youth culture of our nation. One of my most enduring supporters, Xhosa offered his services as my personal assistant for a pittance. It still moves me deeply to think that young intellectuals with straight-A grades and significant opportunities for self-advancement in post-Apartheid South Africa should dedicate their efforts to my cause. Xhosa—whom I fondly call X for short—is also an exceptionally talented rap artist. He and his circle of young intelligentsia had been dedicatedly publishing poetry in literary journals and producing funky programs on national television in honor of my White Lion work. A radio station has now agreed to air his inspired music nationwide.
“It’s just the beginning,” he tells me, enthusiastically reminding me that his colleagues are pursuing all avenues possible to raise awareness about the White Lions’ plight.
“Great news! Well done, X!” I say.
His comment is touching. So much about Xhosa endears him to me. Although art and music are Xhosa’s passions, I’ve known for some time that he actually comes from an accounting background at the university. These past couple of weeks, Xhosa has been particularly eager to do the sums, but sadly, there is little to calculate.
By way of consolation, Xhosa points out now, “At least we’ve gained the support of quite a number of individuals.”
“Yup. They’re courageous,” I admit. “Clearly they’ve contributed all they can afford—small amounts given lovingly and unconditionally.”
It’s not that I undervalue any of it. Every bit counts.
A week ago, we pulled off an exciting and maverick campaign. Members of a well-known British rock band, once called 10CC, came together on short notice to help stage an awareness-raising event in aid of my appeal. It was led by Greg McKewan. In former days, he performed before a crowd of sixty-five thousand people; he’d written a series of songs in celebration of the White Lions. Knowing the urgency, Greg and his band acted very fast and pulled an event together on a shoestring after a couple of weeks of advertising and promotion. They put love and guts into their show, and it has raised huge awareness. But X and I have been assessing the results. I’ve received masses of emails filled with eager questions, but only a trickle of funds. Every cent is welcome, of course, but all told, these valued contributions are pocket change compared to the amount outstanding.
However, a substantial difference has been made by an American n
onprofit organization named Corelight, which raised a significant component of funding and, amazingly, committed it without seeking any form of repayment. Their alliance has been deeply encouraging and supportive from the start, so much so that the founder of the organization, Leslie Temple-Thurston, has unconditionally contributed personal inheritance funds toward securing the land. And following her lead, many other kind people have come in to help, with generous, loving donations. But the bottom line is we are still massively short—owing more than half the funds.
My cell phone beeps. It is a text from Jason.
“DONE & DUSTED. Jxx” That’s all he needs to say.
The huge operation of predator-proofing Marah’s land, under his supervision, is now complete. I feel all the more bleak. What is the point of this expensive and exhausting fencing operation? And what is the point of imposing on the time and goodwill of this wonderfully obliging and generous friend? I’ve failed in finding the funds.
I try to pull myself together in a concerted effort to remain positive and to get beyond my personal sense of failure—but the truth is, the option period has dwindled and almost lapsed, and nothing can change that! I feel a crushing sense of defeat.
“X?” I say.
He looks at me from his desk.
“Let’s at least be honest. We need a miracle if we’re gonna raise the funds before the end of this week.”
NOVEMBER 30, 2004. THE LAST DAY of the option’s fifth and final month. Five days after writing out the last check for the fencing. Dazed, I open the door to my office, trying to assess the damage. Xhosa is waiting tentatively for me in the interior by his alcove.
“Should we do it, X?” I ask, rhetorically, detecting the nervous tremor in my own voice. Without pausing for his answer, I respond: “Okay. Let’s go!”
In desperation, I’ve resorted to a private moneylender’s option. Only the direst of measures could have led me to contemplate this alternative—it was literally the last resort.
