Saving the White Lions

by Linda Tucker

  In this region, a tuberculosis pandemic has broken out. All the wildebeest and buffalo to the east of the Red Line—those herds in Timbavati and the other protected areas in the greater Kruger National Park system—are at risk now. What is deeply concerning is that little to no measures are being taken to rectify the situation, and information on the seriousness of this outbreak in the national park system has been suppressed for years.

  Through discussions with veterinarians called in to assess TB-infected animals, Jason and I have determined the crisis is far more serious than authorities are admitting. And the incidence of this disease has increased incrementally over the years.

  For me, the immediate horror is that lions preying on TB-infected animals contract tuberculosis themselves—and usually die as a consequence. If Marah and her cubs happen to feed on an affected carcass, they’ll face the same risk. For this reason, Jason travels long distances to purchase disease-free game from outside of the Red Line. Today, he’s on the road again for this purpose, traveling several hours in a westerly direction to ensure that the wildebeest carcass for Marah and her pride is TB-free, having first gained a stamped permit from the Nature Conservation offices for this transfer.

  Again, the sad truth is that the TB pandemic was another man-made crisis. The wild game originally contracted the disease by being forced into close proximity with humans and their livestock. Now these wild prey animals, and the predators preying on them, can be shot on sight if showing signs of the disease.

  It seems to me animals always bear the brunt of human folly. Following the course of Marah’s long walk to freedom, I’m reminded of Dr. Cloete and his joint specialties of taxidermy and DDs (dangerous diseases—passed on by animals to humans). As far as I know, no one has done a comprehensive study of the dangerous diseases we humans pass to animals. Recently, the lions in the National Kruger Park region started contracting a debilitating ailment known as FIV (feline AIDS), which attacks their immune systems. Little, if nothing, is being done to remedy this disease.

  Nelias is walking ahead of me, but he suddenly stops, intently regarding the skies. Outside the leafy canopy of the river, vultures circle. He shakes his head. Sam, Cibi, and I head out with him into the dry bushveld to see what’s attracting these spiraling scavengers.

  Before long, we find an adult wildebeest female. She’s lying in the fragile shade of a sickle bush, having died giving birth. Her exhaustion, frailty, and lack of ready nutrition were a deadly combination. I instruct Sam and Cibi to sit, and they take up an obedient sitting position, although highly excited and interested in this discovery. I feel exactly the opposite. Already wrestling with depression over these past few weeks, I’m left totally bereft by this sight. The calf’s tiny head is half out, and it wrenches my heart to see this delicate little creature die unborn.

  I’m gripped with a sudden fear and panic and sense of indescribable loss—is my project also going to be stillborn? I turn away so that Nelias does not see my tears. He’s seen so much hardship in his life: drought, pestilence, famine, poverty, loss; yet, through my tear-filled eyes, I notice how proud and upright he still stands, staring down at the earth and the most recent casualty.

  Nelias begins to drag the carcass of the pregnant wildebeest mother out into the open, so that the vultures, at least, could feast. I know the pack of jackals will probably be here tonight, and by morning, little trace will be left of this poignant scene. Nelias uses the knife attached to his belt to open the wildebeest’s ribcage to check her lungs for polyps, indicative of TB.

  Fortunately, there are no telltale signs of tuberculosis. Nevertheless, I am fighting a rising sense of despair. The story of a wasteland resulting from the dethroning of the true monarch is a timeworn fable, recounted in Ancient Greek times, Ancient Egyptian times, and well before. Even The Lion King was a reinterpretation of this same story. After the true king, Mafasa, is dethroned and the false monarch, Scar, seizes power, the lions’ territories are laid to waste. Only when Simba, the rightful heir, returns to reinstate order and balance in the natural hunting grounds does paradise return. Standing there in that moment with the land lying barren all around me, I feel the profound truth of this mythical tale. In this real-life story of the White Lions, the removal of the true rulers of the wilderness from their ancestral homelands has also resulted in devastation. Under oppressive dominion, a wasteland has ensued. What deeply distresses me at this moment is the solemn realization that it is we humans who have played the role of the false monarch; we are the “Scar” on our pristine Mother Earth, having pillaged, raped, ruined, and left behind deserts where once there were wilderness paradises. I know, with that unfailing clarity, that Marah’s return will reinstate order and balance to the natural ecosystem. But with vested interests at stake, will this restoration of natural order ever be allowed to take place?

  Nelias is standing, ready to move on, but I can’t face him yet. Turning away from the sight of the dead mother and calf and focusing instead on the distant horizon, I wipe the tears from my eyes. I am trying to reinstate my long-term vision of reclaiming lands on all borders. Through these means, I will dismantle the electrified barricades that separate these lands from the rest of the White Lions’ kingdom. Stilling my aching heart, I concentrate on reaffirming my pledge to Marah, not only to ensure her divine right to freedom, but equally, to assist in restoring balance to her sacred heartland, which was so brutally ravaged in her absence. And I call on great Mother Nature, Gaia, to assist me.

  Feeling my strength returning, I tell Nelias I am ready to go. I follow his trail back to the river, gaining some comfort in reminding myself that the land has already begun to flourish under our guardianship. The brief period we’ve been here has witnessed life return in many subtle ways. Every time Nelson and Nelias remove an animal trap or snare on their antipoaching patrols, or a barbed wire wound tight around a tree, Mother Nature can breathe more freely. And I know that one day, under Marah’s silent padded paw print, life will sprout and blossom and flourish in abundance once again.

  Drawing on my courage, I focus on watching Nelias place his boots one step at a time on the earth, while he scans its surface for traces of those creatures that have used this path before him. And I begin to take heart from his dignified example. With our lion family protected in the epicenter of their ancient ancestral lands, there’s no going back. Only forward, one step at a time.

  CHAPTER 27

  Canned Hunting, or Caged Slaughter?

  SEPTEMBER 10, 2005. THE MINISTER OF THE ENVIRONMENT has finally announced his intention to prohibit canned hunting, and he is instituting a public participation process to consolidate the issue. Our team has urgently convened to try to evaluate what, if any, headway this announcement will make in actually shutting down the monstrous industry.

  The assembled group is the usual that gathers in the kitchen every morning—with two differences. We are gathered around a table at Jos Macs, rather than Base Camp, and Mireille has rejoined us! My godmother returned from England to the lionland two weeks ago, hale-hearted and disseminating good cheer like relief parcels to soldiers on the frontline. Having her with me again has revived my flagging spirits. She arrived with gusto, only to find—much to her delight—that the rondavel Nelias and Nelson have been secretly working on is almost complete. She’s now expressing a long-standing wish to move out to the lionland permanently. Matriarch that she is, there are moments when Mireille suddenly resembles that golden-haired little urchin who spent day after day alone with her loving Tsonga nanny in the remote rondavel, singing Tsonga songs and telling animal stories, or sitting outside in the dust with the bugs and other creatures, while her austere adoptive parents went on their missionary rounds. She may be a formidable Kokwane now, but she’s never lost her childlike enthusiasm, which proves a huge support in our challenging project. She wakes up early, hearty and enthused, no matter what bombshell was dropped the previous day. But recently, even Mireille’s warm enthusiasm has been put to the test
. In the face of the government’s suspension of our permit approval, the relentless to-ing and fro-ing of tense legal letters between our lawyers and the authorities, and the never-ending threat that our project could be shut down and Marah and the cubs seized, I’ve noticed she has to rest more frequently and sometimes is unable to rise before 10:00 a.m.

  BUT ALL OF US ARE UP EARLY to catch the first morning news. Mireille stands at the head of our table, putting in an order for breakfast. In fifteen minutes, a program on national television will be aired, addressing the issue. We don’t possess a TV at our camp and haven’t invested in a booster aerial for reception. So our nearest option is Jos Macs, where for once the incongruous television screens in this sonorous natural environment are an advantage. Fortunately, there was no competing rugby event at this early hour, and the pub’s entirely empty, apart from our group.

  Jos Macs’s kitchen staff is looking worse for wear after another late night. One waitress has taken up a broom to sweep around our feet. Another carries out a tray of coffee mugs. Having laid it down on our wooden table, she gives the surface a cursory wipe with her damp dishcloth. Jason is lugging in a comfortable chair for Mireille, who is standing, orchestrating from the head of the table as usual. The rest of us are seated on the hard, wooden benches around the table, edgily watching the screen. Television’s not high on our team’s agenda, but this is a matter of life and death to our cause, so we’ve all shelved our immediate practical plans for the day.

  This will be the first television program I’ve watched in the nine and a half months I’ve been on White Lion territories. It was such a relief having broken my dependency on TV. I often think of humanity all around our fragile globe, glued to their boxes, staring into a virtual world while our real world gasps and cries out for help. In the months when I was stuck in The Cupboard in the city, trying to fundraise, I’d often fall asleep to the inane flickering of the television screen, in an attempt to distract my anxious mind. But then I’d wake up an hour or so later, feeling even greater exhaustion and clutter. These days, when I’m not out monitoring with Jason, I fall asleep to the gurgle of the nightjar, the hyenas whooping and laughing, or the gentle rustling of the wind in the leaves. The comforting sounds of Nature instill calm and peacefulness, as they’ve done since time immemorial. And most recently, with Marah making her presence known, sounding her rulership over her kingdom, I fall asleep to the impressive roars of the Lion Queen. Her three cubs have just started joining their mother in a formidable chorus of roaring. I pause momentarily to see if I can hear their distant rumbles from Jos Macs’s wooden balcony, but the sound of the TV intervenes once again.

  Our group is in deep discussion, waiting for the program to commence. Frankly, no one is holding their breath, as the government has made promises of this kind in the past, without delivering.

  Ever since the shocking exposé almost a decade ago, when this massively well-funded industry first emerged, we’ve been gathering petitions and letters of protest from around the world in order to fight the lions’ cause. In an act of showmanship, the government immediately placed a “voluntary” moratorium on canned hunting, but it studiously avoided taking action. Finally, under intensive pressure from our organization and others, the government agreed to reassess the issue. More time elapsed, while the subindustry burgeoned into an uncontrollable monster. All the while, regulations were not put in place to curb the escalating atrocities.

  In one of many cruel twists, The Cook Report, which first laid bare these atrocities to the world intending to alleviate the crisis, was in fact ruthlessly exploited as free advertising by the canned-hunting industry. At the time when canned hunting was first exposed, only a handful of operators existed in South Africa. Less than ten years later, more than one hundred canned-hunting operations have since established themselves. And they are still aggressively expanding under the guarantee of fast money.

  So in terms of our greater strategy, this breaking news is one of the most important developments so far. Under the escalating barrage of outrage from the public, the government has announced its intention to outlaw canned-hunting practices, but before anything concrete is actually put into effect, it has invited a public participation process, which could go on for several more years. Meanwhile, the torture and killings continue.

  Seizing the tension of the moment, with all of us focused on the same issue, Thomas poses a question, “At a time of ecological crisis, like now, d’you think any individual person can really make a difference?” He tightens his woolen scarf around his neck, pausing for effect, before continuing, “Sure, if that person holds the position of premier or minister of the environment, he can change policy—but I’m talking about the rest of us—the ordinary layperson. Can any of us actually change things—or are we simply moving deck chairs around on the Titanic?”

  “Certainly, everyone can make a difference, my lad,” announces Mireille cheerily. “In any walk of life, in your own unique way.”

  Having pondered this question long and hard, I know she’s right. I myself have witnessed how incredibly responsive Mother Nature is to love. If we show her loving kindness to the best of our abilities—whether by watering the emaciated tree in our backyard, recycling our waste, or rescuing the stray dog we spot desperately navigating the highway—Nature rewards us lovingly in return. And Nature invariably gives much greater gifts than we ourselves have given.

  “First rule is to remember our Earth is sentient,” I respond to Thomas’s question. “She’s conscious, like a mother. So when we become conscious, we work in harmony with her.”

  “Don’t get you. We’re all conscious.”

  “Well, yes. Barely. I mean ‘conscious’ as in wide awake—and responsible.”

  I pause momentarily, savoring the vibrant natural environment all around us. There is a momentary inhaling of breath in the surrounding wildlife.

  “The ‘Mother Earth’ expression is totally right,” I continue. “She protects us, heals us, feeds us, nurtures, and loves us—just as any true mother would.”

  Thomas nods slowly, trying to pick a hole in my argument.

  “That’s the fundamental law behind saving our planet,” Xhosa chips in, holding his coffee mug with both hands, in his trademark woolen cut-off gloves. “In saving her, we save ourselves.”

  For Thomas, I should have perhaps tried to formulate something in more scientific terms, but the TV program is beginning now, so like everyone else, I turn my attention to the screen.

  First there’s an interview with the minister of the environment. He is a white South African from Afrikaner stock who has somehow found his way into the ANC government, and he is announcing that this trophy-hunting industry is now under assessment, and the pros and cons are being evaluated. Our team groans with a single voice—this process has already taken ten years of assessment and so-called evaluation, and we’ve heard it all before. But then, when the minister goes on to announce that he is drafting policy to keep canned hunting under control, there are some sighs of relief. Perhaps something positive will come from this public participation process he has initiated. Following the minister’s speech, there is an interview with a canned hunter. The man has been filmed standing in front of a caged camp full of aggressive and utterly miserable-looking lions. I brace myself to watch. I know somehow I have to come to grips with the mindset behind these appalling activities. How can I oppose this mindset without understanding it? I remind myself of Nelson Mandela’s studied and strategic approach during his twenty-seven years as an imprisoned activist. He was insightful, despite his appalling circumstances, in persuading his comrades that it was crucial to appreciate the mind of the oppressor, so that they could face their formidable foe and overcome it.

  Trying to suspend judgment now, I observe the canned hunter gesturing toward the caged lions behind him in justifying his actions:

  “This’s how I make my living,” he objects indignantly. “Why can’t I do what I like with those things, there? I paid
for them.”

  I am absolutely spellbound by his argument. Where do you draw the line between commodity and sentient being? If money is the only justification, does absolutely everything have a price? If so, where do you stop? With your dog? With your mother? Your child?

  It fascinates me that this man is prepared to go public with his views, openly, and in his way, honestly. By contrast, most canned-hunting outfits operate clandestinely, through secret networks that the public, and possibly even the authorities, are completely unaware of. We simply can’t fathom a fraction of the wheeling and dealing. Many are so brazen as to publicly advertise themselves as kiddies’ theme parks or “petting” zoos, while trading behind the scenes as barbarous trophy-hunting operators. I’ve witnessed the Bethlehem canned operator lie about his activities, straight-faced and on record, publicly claiming he’d never shoot a White Lion, while at the very same time advertising for this lion’s head as a trophy on the Internet. Lies and deception are rife. However different these views are from my own, I find this particular man’s approach refreshing, in a bizarre way.

  “They’ve a wonderful life!” he continues. “When they get born, my wife bottle-feeds them, like babies. Then they get to play with my kiddies in the house—they even sit at the table or sleep in the kids’ beds. When the things are a bit bigger and they start messing the house, we put them in a cage with other lions the same size so that they can grow,” he gestures. “So what’s the problem? The things can sleep as much as they like, and eat and f—ck. Then, when their manes are big enough, we shoot them.” He pauses, with an expression of astounded indignation on his face. “That’s how we make the trophy that hangs on someone’s wall for a long, long time.” Again he pauses, as if that were justification enough, then continues. “I tell you, people are prepared to pay big bucks. So I don’t see why’s anyone jumping up and down! Huh? Must be just they’re jealous of the money I’m making.”