by Linda Tucker
The man has a thick South African accent, with a high-pitched voice.
Thomas picks up on this and asks, “Why’s it so many of the butchest hunting goofs suffer from squeaky voices?”
I pause, then quip, “We girls have our theories.”
Which results in a tittering laugh from the men in the group, and the inevitable comeback from Thomas, “Now that’s below the belt, Linda.”
“Let’s just put it this way,” Mireille announces in her most uppity tone. “There’s something disproportionate about the size of their guns.”
Another titter. Fortunately, I’ve noticed that the team members—including Harold himself, when he was present—tend to temper their language when Mireille is around, but I’ve also observed that our matriarch is not incapable of her own colorful expressions.
The hunter is still talking. “The mark-up on speed-bred trophy lions is much better than battery chickens. I tell you: give me one good reason why should I do anything else?”
“It’s like saying he makes a good profit through child prostitution, so why should he refrain?” snorts Mireille, outraged. “We don’t have a right to make a living out of any activity!”
Unprepared to watch any more claptrap, she marches off in a huff and busies herself in discussions with the Tsonga kitchen staff.
The interview is coming to an end in any event, and the man has his own trademark way of concluding: “Thank you and f—ck you,” he declares to the press reporter.
Then the program switches to include a very brief interview with an advocate fighting for animal rights before turning to other matters. I notice there is no word from my lionhearted colleague, Gareth Patterson, the man who relocated George Adamson’s lions after this iconic figure (of Born Free fame) was assassinated in the ’80s. Patterson went on to publish seven books on lions, leading up to a grueling exposé entitled Dying to Be Free, which uncovered some of the atrocities behind the canned-hunting industry, almost a decade ago. Since the publication of his book, Patterson has gone underground, weary and worn out both by the death threats he received and the total ineffectuality of the authorities in doing anything meaningful to stop the killing of innocent lions.
“So?” Mireille has returned. “Is this positive news?”
“Hard to say,” I comment.
I provide background by explaining that in the ’90s, when the first deplorable reports of canned hunting hit the press, the government declared a “voluntary moratorium.”
“How can any moratorium be voluntary?” Xhosa asks. “Contradiction in terms.”
“Exactly,” I respond. “All it meant was ethical operators who respected the law were obliged to cease all lion-related activities, while for canned-hunting operators, it was the ideal black hole of opportunity. In over a decade, nothing whatsoever’s been done to curb this industry.”
I can see the expression of outrage in Mireille’s face, and the group looks increasingly hotheaded. If the government’s intention is to place on hold any activity involving the transfer or relocation of lions, the exact reverse is taking place: the breeding, international trading, and killing of captive lions has exploded into a massive industry, virtually overnight. Alas, it has only gotten increasingly worse as the months and years pass.
“One wants to be optimistic about the minister’s announcement of a provisional hold on lion activities, of course,” I pause, feeling my own anger rising. “But probably all this means is that reputable operators are again denied permits—while for canned-hunting operators, business is at an all-time high.”
Even Jason looks hot under the collar.
“Worst is: canned hunting remains legalized,” he points out. “Until the government has officially abolished these malpractices, any individual or organization’s free to make a successful career out of breeding endangered animals—for slaughter.”
Mireille stands, hands on hips, listening with an intense matronly expression of disapproval. The grim facts speak for themselves. The proliferation of these killing camps has made a mockery of the government’s supposed moratorium. In just over a decade, an entire pitiless industry has boomed by exploiting animal misery. The vast majority of the imprisoned lions are golden-colored, while the number of White Lions incarcerated in this way has remained a closely guarded secret, despite the fact that the Global White Lion Protection Trust succeeded in focusing media attention on this appalling state of affairs.
“Disgraceful,” Mireille finally concludes. “It seems to me this industry’s shot up overnight, and the authorities are conspicuously doing nothing about it!”
She’s looking more determined than ever. “Most important thing now’s for all welfare groups to join forces.”
Having myself been one of the lonely voices of protest for years, I’ve watched the wave of animal welfare and environmental groups suddenly rising to campaign against canned lion hunting. However, the result of this overwhelming political tension is bureaucratic chaos, with authorities undecided which way legislation should turn.
Without clear directives from government, permit officers are approving or withholding lion permits at will. Underhand dealing is commonplace, and in some cases, entire permit books have disappeared, unaccounted for. It’s a world gone mad.
“We’re in the middle of a bizarre and frightening nightmare,” I’m forced to admit, “which doesn’t only affect Marah and her family. It’s a national crisis.”
The enormity of the problem weighs heavily on the whole group. Unfortunately, the issues around my captive-born lioness and her right to freedom are not isolated; they reverberate through an entire malign industry.
“An additional problem is the impaired genetics of many of these captive lions through aggressive speed-breeding,” Jason voices the grim truth. “So there’s no conservation reason to return them to the wild.”
There’s a bleak silence.
“But what’s to become of all these dear creatures, snatched from nature,” Mireille demands, “and held captive in a pitiless system?” Another silence.
Xhosa stands up, and for a dread moment I think he’s about to break into a rap on the subject. But instead he offers one of his gems, “One day we’ll look back on these atrocities, like America looks back on slavery and South Africa looks back on Apartheid—and we’ll cringe at our legalized misdemeanors,” he forecasts somberly.
“True, X,” I concede. “But for the meantime, we’re trapped in the middle of this insanity—with the majority of people totally oblivious to the problem.”
“And blithely unable to comprehend why it’s so completely and totally unacceptable!” Mireille adds indignantly.
I stand up, pointing out, “Question’s not why some morally bankrupt individuals get pleasure out of killing beautiful animals. Unfortunately, there’re always gonna be unsavory people, like murderers and rapists. The real question’s why the rest of humanity lets them get away with it. I agree with you, Godmum. Every single person can make a difference. So why don’t we?”
“Because so many of us have lost touch with Nature,” Xhosa concludes.
Solemn silence. I notice the waitress, who was slumped behind the bar counter, staring at the sports channel, now that it’s been switched back on.
“And our own natures,” I add. “Most people don’t realize how powerful they are when they awaken the spirit of the lion within them.”
“Precisely!” Jason says decisively, standing up and reaching for his bush hat on the table. “Right everyone. We’ve got a program to get on with. Let’s move.”
There’s a general reorientation as the team refocuses on the day’s schedule: bush clearing and fence maintenance. We pay the waitress, then march down the gravel path, one after the other, and pack into the back of the Land Rover, Jason driving with Mireille in the front passenger seat.
Once on the land, Jason drops Mireille, Xhosa, and me at Base Camp, while he heads off with the team into the bushveld for the day. My godmother and my assistant im
mediately start busying themselves opening our post to check there’s nothing sinister, while I make my way to my office.
I go to my desk to check my voicemail, picking up a message from a journalist, wishing to interview me on these recent developments with the minister. As always, my first reaction to exposure in the press and media is resistance. Then I start to think of the canned-hunting camps I’ve visited and countless untold tales of atrocities unnoticed. The current situation is almost too much to bear, these orphaned and imprisoned animals in the brute hands of our own inhumane species. Every time I witness an atrocity, or even have it reported to me, the injustice tears at my heart. And compounding it, because the country’s laws are not on the side of the lions, I feel helpless and handcuffed, as if I’m right inside that cage with the incarcerated cats, facing the mindless cruelty of my jailors. What a world we humans have created! Where’s the solution? In this context of ignorance and apathy, the solution lies in collaboration with a network of enlightened people. With this in mind, I recognize that the media has been a great assistance in closely monitoring Marah’s amazing story, because publicity has helped protect her.
We have poisonous journalists targeting us at the behest of the hunting industry, but equally, in fighting Marah’s cause, the press and media have also been our greatest ally. So I embrace the opportunity.
I actively calm my mind once again, in preparation for a barrage of questions, then I call back. A woman answers, with an efficient voice, and starts off rather upbeat, explaining her thinking. First she indicates the story will be published in a popular women’s magazine, not a newspaper; then she goes straight into the pitch.
“So—I told my editor, yours is another Born Free story.”
“Not exactly,” I comment. “Unlike Elsa, Marah wasn’t born ‘free,’ but a prisoner.”
“Oh, true,” observes the journalist.
“Unfortunately, the tragedy’s that Marah’s not alone,” I point out. “She may be unique—that’s for sure—but she was hand-reared in captivity along with many other rare animals, bred specifically to be killed.”
I go on to explain that in fact, the challenge we face is entirely different from challenges at the time Born Free was written, when Elsa, the lioness, was hand-reared by Joy and George Adamson in Kenya in the 1970s. Canned hunting didn’t exist in those days. It’s a product of Apartheid-type separatism, and it emerged once the Apartheid regime fell. I also explain that canned hunting is the inevitable endpoint of consumerist thinking, which presumes everything—however rare, endangered, intelligent, and sentient—can be sold and packaged like a commodity on the stock exchange. I wonder how she is going to respond to this blunt information. I’ve had dealings with responsible journalists who recognized their crucial role in positively influencing public opinion at a time of dire need, but others who simply saw mine as another story before moving on to the next flavor of the day.
“Okay,” she responds cautiously. “I wasn’t intending to get into all that political stuff. But, yeah, I suppose it’s important to put your lion story in context.”
I pause. “It is. Really.”
Choosing my words carefully, I go on to discuss the challenges of my project in brief: the canned-hunting opponents; the common exploitative view that natural resources, including White Lions, are there for the taking; the similar view among some scientists today that White Lions, by virtue of their unusual coloring, have no conservation value; and, most glaringly, the gaping lack of spiritual connection with Mother Nature that allows people to treat animals like merchandise.
Her response is somewhat vague, as she explains she was interested in my own personal story and not the wider issues. So I redirect my focus to firsthand details. In some ways, these are the most difficult to talk about. Taking care not to become emotional, I describe the taxing step-by-step process from the day Marah was born to her present incarceration, and the multiple ways people contrived to keep this rare creature under brutal lock and key. The facts speak for themselves. But what I have difficulty explaining is my own inner conflict, each and every day, at having removed myself from the lioness I love in order to ensure her freedom. Elsa, the lioness born free in the wild, orphaned and then raised by the Adamsons, lived with humans. She slept in the Adamson’s tent, traveled in their vehicle, ate with their staff, and finally was left to fend for herself alone in the wild, where she eventually died. Much as I would have loved to have the same privileged relationship with Marah, by force of circumstance I’ve had to choose a very different route. Ever since Marah was in my care, Jason and I have actively resisted any kind of taming, or habituation. We’re ensuring human contact is minimized, to give her and her family the greatest chance of survival in the wild. But with every passing day, the bond grows stronger, and the physical separation between us becomes more difficult.
The journalist is now fascinated by the differences between my own story and that of the Adamson’s in Born Free. I explain Elsa was a lioness caught between two worlds—the human and the animal—showing humanity how Nature’s love can cross the species barrier. But in our day, humans have breached and disrespected that barrier by bottle-feeding and hand-rearing cuddly cubs as if they’re family—with the specific purpose of slaughtering them in their cages as adults. For me, direct contact with these loving animals is the most powerful experience of unconditional love imaginable. So it is indescribably painful to witness the callous betrayal, taking place all over our country. In shamanic terms, when humans break the sacred contract with lions, King of beasts, they commit the ultimate sacrilege. There is probably no greater taboo. For the shaman, it is not a life for a life, but a human soul for every lion’s life taken in this profane bargain.
That is the greater picture. I keep my response to the interview simple, and when I pause for breath after describing my goals and dreams for Marah’s rewilding, the journalist is satisfied she has the material she needs.
“Okay, that’s about it,” she sums up. “Don’t forget to send me some cutesy pictures of you hugging Marah and cubs.”
I wince at the thought. I’m not sure how much she’s really understood, and I’m particularly concerned the public shouldn’t get the wrong idea.
“There are pictures of Marah and me as a baby,” I venture, feeling an involuntary shudder at the thought of that little lamb-like creature singled out for her snowy coat to become a prized commodity. “And there’re also some photos with Marah at nine months when I released her, for about one hour, from the canned-hunting camp.”
As I offered this option, my mind flashes back to that unforgettable day. The pictures themselves give no clue of the secrecy and high risk surrounding that brief encounter between me and the most beautiful cat on Earth, a subadult lioness full of innocence and wonderment.
“But I’m concerned not to give the readers the idea that it’s okay to pet lion cubs,” I explain. “Problem is, so many cubs are handled these days—in zoos, petting parks, even supermarkets—and no one seems to understand the gruesome truth: that these same animals, hugged as babies, are put in cages to be killed for fun when they grow up.”
“Sick,” the journalist concedes. “You sure this is really happening?”
“On a large scale, unfortunately. It’s a massive, well-funded industry. If we allow it to continue, it’ll be the end of wildlife as we know it.”
“Okay, I’ll see what I can do,” she responds in closing.
I thank her and say goodbye, feeling an indefinable gulf in communication.
I’m wondering how my life’s story will be chewed over, digested, and regurgitated to the world. After replacing the receiver, I sit in my office chair, head in hands, suddenly overwhelmed by the enormous burden of it all. Ten months waiting for the go-ahead to release Marah on her own sacred lands, and am I any closer to my goal? What is the point of engaging media when canned-hunting exposés are used to promote canned hunting? What is the point of engaging authorities when they have no authority? I fee
l I am teetering on the edge of despair. As always, I yearn for direct contact with my beloved lion family. But those who have the closest contact with lions these days are the same people who torture and crucify them! So the greatest love I can show Marah and her cubs is to avoid direct handling, or human imprinting—and give them back their freedom! That is the paradox I live, day after painful day—like an overprotective mother whose life purpose is to release her children, so they might be free to express their true natures, unattached to her apron strings. If you love them, truly, set them free.
CHAPTER 28
Silent Stakeholder
OCTOBER 29, 2005. NEARLY TWO MONTHS AFTER the minister’s announcement, nearly a year of waiting for resolution on Marah’s release. The drought in the lions’ land hasn’t abated, and the intensity around the canned-hunting issue has reached a point of national crisis. Everywhere there are people politics, while for the lions, the prospects have only worsened.
After months of tense engagement without any tangible end in sight, over and above years of relentless campaigning, Jason and I are fatigued and battle-weary. Today, we are away from home—fighting the White Lions’ case at the national level. We are attending a national forum, convened by the government with the purpose of presenting the minister’s new draft proposals and hammering out the issues with potential stakeholders.
On the legislative front, national rules and regulations are in deadlock. Permission continues to be withheld for Marah’s release, and all over South Africa, authorization has been withdrawn for lion sanctuaries or any lion-reintroduction programs in the wild. By contrast, captive-breeding operations (breeding lions for trophy hunting) have sprung up without regulation everywhere—a nefarious subindustry that knows no mercy and no restraint—aided and abetted by officials without mandate.
