by Linda Tucker
“What, if any, progress was made today?” I ponder aloud. “What’s the point of all this discussion of canned hunting? It’s like debating a draft policy document on slave management, when there shouldn’t be slavery in the first place!”
“Not everyone sees it that way,” he responds.
“Hmmm. Amazing what arguments people will concoct to support their commercial interests.”
“Sure. Money skews people’s judgment. Even some of the environmentalists—how was that argument today? Couldn’t believe it. Some conservation group arguing that canned hunting’s a good thing—because breeding lions for commercial hunting in cages will protect other lions from being hunted in the wild!”
“Grotesque!” I concur. “So twisted. Like saying we should legalize pedophilia in order to protect street kids from being molested!”
Driving in the dark along the treacherous mountain pass, now the gravity of the situation is hitting home. With or without permits, the factory farms have continued to prosper. And the canned-hunting industry’s threat of suing the government is no empty one; through their nefarious activities, they’ve amassed a substantial war chest to execute it. Clearly, a court case is a cynical strategy to keep the government tied up in litigation for another ten years, while the malpractices are given free rein.
“D’you think government’s actually in on this strategy?” I question Jason now.
“Elements of the government,” he responds. “Certainly looks that way.”
“Even if the outcome of the court case is ultimately successful,” he adds, “another decade of these malpractices would destroy the genetic integrity of the world’s entire lion population.”
I can’t see his face, but I feel Jason’s gloom.
The road ahead is dark, and our headlights don’t help us see any farther down the way.
CHAPTER 29
Stonewalled
OCTOBER 30, 2005. AS DAWN BREAKS, the first thing I see when I open my eyes and look out the Land Rover’s window is the crisp winter sun rising and gilding the bushveld scene—and all four lions lined up, nestled together under a clump of trees, watching the sunrise. What a vision!
“Don’t wanna leave the cats,” Jason murmurs, giving me a warm hug upon waking. “Could stay here forever.”
In the aftermath of the government forum we attended yesterday, Jason and I feel frazzled. The storm out by the canned-hunting troopers and their demands on the besieged minister will be all over the papers by now. Jason and I may be untrained and ill-equipped, but we’ve developed seemingly inexhaustible stamina when it comes to protecting our lion family. So I gather myself for yet another day of red tape and legal battles.
The shamanic forcefield I set up around our perimeter has held. There’ve been no more invasive breaches of our fence line, and everyone who has set foot on the land has come in support of our cause. But beyond our borders, it seems a kind of lawlessness and insanity reigns, with humans riding roughshod over Nature’s rights to survival.
With all my heart, my only wish is to be alone with Jason and our lions, in paradise. But Marah’s story is being played out against a vast political backdrop, as the raging national debates around the issue of canned hunting reach a new ferocity. I don’t have the luxury of time, or retreat. With the urgent new developments on the boil after the government forum, we need to get back to camp to manage the issues. So we roll up the duvet and straighten ourselves out. As Tawny moves off, all four cats pop their heads up above the bleached grasses to watch us leave, and I look back at them with a yearning heart. The sun is backlighting their furry heads now, like halos.
What’s their future?
Through our love for the lions, Jason and I have somehow managed to remain optimistic, but our resistance has reached its lowest ebb. The endless applications to the authorities, combined with the unrelenting threats of law enforcement shutting down our operation, have worn our nerves and our morale thin. Of all frustrations, our inability to take action in respect to Marah’s release is our worst constraint, magnifying the drought of the parched lands all around us into an internal landscape of desperation and despair.
When will the merciless drought break? We head back to Base Camp now, through the barren landscape of dry skeletal trees, toward the eastern boundary. The magic guarri tree, so-named because of its medicinal powers known to traditional healers like Maria Khosa, is one of the only bushes that keeps its green leaves in winter. But I see these leaves too have shriveled and dropped off under the interminable heat. There are so many animal carcasses along the way that I find myself despairing of the rains ever falling again. Desiccated remains in the dust exposed to the pitiless winter sun. It’s desperate.
Still, we keep going. Every morning, we identify more tasks to be undertaken in preparation for Marah’s big day. The team of field workers whom Jason put together to assist—mostly voluntary, some employed by the White Lion Trust—have been working intensively. For security reasons, we’ve made sure field staff members are relatives of Nelson and Nelias, selected from the nearby Tsonga community, so they are trusted additions to our existing team. Mercifully, each month, sufficient income somehow comes in to pay them fair salaries.
Heading along the perimeter, Jason takes the opportunity to check the thorn-tree barricade, running parallel and about ten meters in from the fence line itself. The hewn thorn trees are all stacked against each other to form a long barrier, as planned. He’s pleased with the massive bush-clearing exercise.
“Hmmm. Worried ’bout territorial male lions coming to court Marah,” he comments, as he brings Tawny to a halt and climbs out of the vehicle to test the perimeter fence with his voltage tester. “Would be really challenging for her sons.”
“Natural threats I can live with,” I respond. “It’s people I worry about.”
“Sure, but I’d like to minimize all the risks. Remember, lions growing up in the wild suffer from an 80 percent mortality rate—and that’s before humans even start interfering!”
Because we share our eastern and southern borders with neighboring reserves, there is a danger of possible territorial encounters with neighboring lions, which would pose a threat to Marah’s subadult sons, Regeus and Letaba. Jason has established the internal thorn-tree barricade as a protective screen, to keep Marah and cubs away from hazards at their external boundaries, and out of sight from any humans accessing the boundary road on the northern and western borders.
“Looking good,” he comments as we drive on, running his eye over an area of habitat selectively cleared by the bush squad.
While the primary intention behind the barricade was protection, Jason also used this procedure to effectively clear out invasive plant species, redressing the historical problem of habitat imbalance, which was a consequence of the previous owner overstocking his land with game for hunting.
“These huge game losses we’ve suffered in the drought are largely the result of previous land mismanagement,” Jason reminds me. “We’ll get the balance right eventually.”
I try not to sound too bleak. “Hopefully, things will start to improve once the habitat recovers.”
“You watch—this bush-clearing program’ll have huge impact on the recovery of the habitat,” Jason responds, optimistically looking at the skies. “Once the rains come, this cleared area could become the ideal hunting grounds for the lions.”
“Yup! We know they can do it!” I respond. In that moment, I visualize our pride in a carefully strategized hunting party, crouching down behind bush cover, stalking, chasing, and successfully taking down their prey. Just like a wild pride! Of course, they can do it.
Jason and I encounter the bush squad themselves. It’s early, just past 7:00 a.m., but they’ve already started their day’s work: patching up sections of pipeline. They look up and wave at us, and we stop briefly to give them encouragement. Jason engages freely with the field workers in fluent Zulu, talking through the challenges. Zulu is the communal language everyone sha
res, although some of the team are Tsonga and others Sepedi. Several of the bush squad are women who work even more effectively and determinedly at this hard labor than the men. These amazing people have become the mainstay of our organization, and the women, particularly, have earned my deepest admiration. Without fail, each morning before they begin their daily work, everyone prays for rain, no matter his or her religion.
Due to the relentless drought, the priority this month was laying water pipes, and maintaining dams and water points. Before Marah and her cubs arrived here, we ran a five kilometer-long pipe to deliver water from the Tsau River to the troughs in the lions’ boma. Further preparations for their release meant extending this by several more kilometers. The intention was to supply a crucial centralized area, which had completely dried up during the drought. But even as this pipeline was laid, starving prey animals were digging it up in numerous places in a bid for moisture, which means we’ve been unable to get the water supply to its destination. In some areas we’ve managed to keep waterholes replenished, but even here animals die right beside the water, because there’s so little to forage on in the parched winter lands.
“Must check in with fire protection services as soon as we reach camp,” Jason mutters as we leave the bush squad and drive on, adding another item to his seemingly endless list.
With the bushveld so pitilessly dry, fire is a real and terrible threat. Later today, we’ll be burning firebreaks around all borders, as a precautionary measure against a veldfire. It is a high-risk procedure in itself, which, if not managed impeccably, can go horribly wrong, with staff getting burned or runaway fires causing havoc. Today’s weather forecast indicates no wind factor, so Jason’s call to fire protection services is simply a formality and additional safety measure.
As we approach the camp, we pause to let a giraffe mother and calf cross the dust road.
“Next step will be their translocation,” Jason notes, referring to these elegant creatures, looking down at us with their gentle, doey eyes under long lashes.
We’ve been putting off the daunting exercise of moving the herd of seventeen giraffe as long as possible. It will be a harrowing exercise involving helicopters, massive transport vehicles, significant costs, and stress on animals and humans alike.
“Gonna be seriously traumatic for the giraffe,” I murmur.
“Agreed. Sadly, I don’t see an alternative.”
Reluctant as we both are, now that winter is finally on its way out, we can’t delay any longer, because the likelihood of casualties when moving giraffe in summer months is much higher than in the cool season.
One kick of a giraffe could prove a fatal threat to the lions as they attempt to hunt. Jason has given this careful consideration, having witnessed a wild tawny lioness with a broken jaw die of starvation in the course of his studies. But the greater threat is that a fleeing animal the size of a panicked giraffe may breach our predator-proof fences—pursued by the pride. And, once free of our protected area, the lions could be shot on sight by our unfriendly neighbors. As always, the natural risks we are prepared to tolerate, not the man-made ones. All the other creatures on the land will stay: the many herd animals and prey animals, the browers, grazers, antbears, and badgers, and even the other large predators, like the hyena, leopard, jackal, serval, and caracal cats. The creatures in this natural habitat are exactly what Marah would expect to find in her endemic homelands, except the huge herbivores, like the elephant, rhino, and water buffalo, not presently resident on this piece of land. Until we expand our borders, it is too small for them to live natural lives here.
“The lions’ survival has to be our primary goal,” Jason adds.
“Understood, Jase. I just feel for the giraffe! They’ve a right to be here too.”
“And one day they will be, and the whole fragile ecosystem’ll be reestablished. But for now, one step at a time, right?”
“Right. And one day, Marah and cubs’ll meet up with wild lions,” I say. “But for the moment, that’ll only happen through electric fences on our borders.”
“Yeah. Remember, lions are territorial. We’d risk wiping out our lions, particularly the males, if they have direct contact.”
“Back to human issues,” I note as we arrive at the farmhouse.
Through the kitchen window, I recognize Mireille’s figure even from a distance. Great to see she’s up and about, rallying the troops as usual. For several days, she’s been out of action, probably needing some emergency treatment herself, but any of my attempts to bring her a tray in bed were dismissed with firm instructions to “kindly stop all this fussing.”
Harold is also at the table. He’s been visiting over the past few days. And I can tell from the general flurry inside the kitchen there is quite a lot of anxious excitement from the group, waiting for feedback from us on yesterday’s government forum meeting. Sam and Cibi come hurtling out of the kitchen door to greet us. The last remaining remnants of the lawn have long since been uprooted by the warthogs—even the dogs’ repeated “Charge of the Light Brigade” failed to keep them at bay. I just hope the desperate hogs have found fodder elsewhere and that their numbers aren’t among our growing fatalities.
We walk into the kitchen now, and Xhosa holds up last night’s Mail and Guardian newspaper, which he brought back from town after doing the weekly supply run this morning. Our government forum is featured on the front page—with a picture of the minister of the environment, confirming his intention to prohibit canned hunting.
“Window dressing?” comments an ever-cynical Thomas, as we seat ourselves.
Mireille pours coffee all around. “What d’you think, goddaughter? Is Mr. Minister telling us porkies again?” she quips, using one of her favored Yorkshire expressions.
“Sincerely hope not,” I reply.
Our voices are upbeat, but underneath I am fighting deep-seated depression. A formidable group of allies has gathered around my project now, with Mireille at the helm, but there are times when all our united and dedicated efforts seem entirely unsuccessful.
“Is our minister lying to us?” I ponder out loud, taking up the national paper and running my eyes over the article. As a former hunter himself, the Afrikaner minister was quoted conceding publicly that “practices are taking place in this country that are not only unacceptable but utterly despicable.”
Before I’ve finished reading, Harold has a rejoinder. “Well, you yourself said the minister’s protestations have been completely ineffectual. No doubt a deliberate cover-up.”
“True, Harry, he hasn’t delivered in the past, but the minister’s one of the only people in a position to change the status quo, and—well—it’s good to finally see some genuine emotion coming from a man in his position.”
Mireille stands behind my chair, drying her hands on a dishcloth. “His desk must be flooding over with hideous horror pictures. But will he prohibit the malpractices?” she demands.
Deep down, I also dread nothing further would be done.
“Where d’we stand?” she prompts.
“Well, firstly,” Jason takes up the challenge, “we need to assess if the new draft policy document will effectively make any real difference. Then we could look at how to plug the loopholes.”
“Even then, can we afford the luxury of time, waiting for these processes to roll out?” I retort.
“Hold that thought!” Mireille responds before I have a chance to further discuss the state of play. “I’ll be back in a jiffy, once I’ve assisted with our hot breakfast.” She disappears into the scullery. Miraculously, it seems, she’s managing to rustle up a large saucepan of scrambled eggs and sausage over the single flame on a gas cylinder.
“So what exactly happened?” Harold asks Jason, while Mireille is out of the room. “Did the canned hunters stand up, clutching their nuts, and demand a showdown?”
“Pretty much,” Jason responds, with a slight grin.
He goes on to describe in some detail the previous day’s government for
um and how it ended in disarray. The canned hunters’ thinly disguised threats were a greater echo of the same intimidation tactics that had forced our project into deadlock.
Harold clears his throat conspiratorially. “Just between us girls—I think they’re running scared.”
“Wouldn’t presume so, Harry,” I retort.
“No, seriously, those guys’re running out of testicles!” he concludes.
An amused grunt from the other men around the table—Jason, Thomas, Xhosa, and a Dutch student who was volunteering his help.
Noting he’s onto a good thing, Harold continues, “Now’s the time to hit ’em where it hurts. They’re on the run. I say go straight for the ghoolies!”
“Ow, that sounds painful!” responds Xhosa.
“No, seriously. This new legislation’s got their testicles in a brace. Now’s the moment to tighten the clamps.”
There’s a general titter, but I shake my head at him. “Harry, this is serious.”
But he’s on a roll, and I’m not sure he’s even heard me. “You’ve been rattling cages for too long now, Linda. Stop the petitions and gentlemen’s tactics, and go for the jugular, or better: the testes. Do a badger! Or even a Bobbitt!”
Peals of laughter.
“Okay. Let’s get real here,” Jason responds, bringing the group’s attention back to the issue at hand. “Our problem is that the canned-hunting industry is dominated by the Afrikaner right wing—”
“Agreed,” Harold notes, sobering up. “The boytjies with pro-hunting neo-Nazi affiliations.”
“And international mafia links,” Jason continues.
