by Linda Tucker
IT’S 4:00 P.M. EVERYONE IS EXCITED and exhausted simultaneously. Outside, there’s a build-up of dense cumulus clouds, and inside there’s a build-up of intensity—almost to the breaking point. We’ve spent the whole day finalizing last details and going through protocols yet another time. Who’s responsible for making the drop of the carcass; who monitors the lions while the carcass is put out; who drives the vehicle for the drop-off; who drives the monitoring vehicle; who opens the gate; who monitors the lions while the gate is being opened; who carries radios; who carries keys. We’ve considered every conceivable “what if” scenario. What if the lions panic and charge out of the boma, heading for the perimeter fences? What if, in all their excitement, they actually break out of the external perimeter fence and we have to track them and dart them before they are shot and killed as “problem animals”? What if they are too frightened to leave the boma at all? What if they split up, and then we can’t find the two who aren’t wearing radio collars? Jason has an intimate understanding of lion behavior in general, so he has a pretty good guess how the sequence is likely to pan out. But we both know that Nature invariably breaks the textbook rules, so we are allowing for unexpected twists and turns.
At day’s end, doing the final checklist, I think of Mireille and how she and her Swiss notebook would have risen to this occasion, crosschecking, and ticking off lists. Ah, Godmum!
There’s also the question of who will chaperone the camera crew. Having each tense moment recorded and then, very possibly, exposed to the world adds immense additional tension to the event. If it were up to Jason and me, we’d prefer to live the moment out of the public eye. But knowing what I do about Marah’s mission to help save humanity, it would be selfish and deeply wrong to keep the Queen of Lions all to myself.
Under normal circumstances, the film crew who started making the documentary a year back would have covered this story as well. However, over the intervening period since they filmed here, we have been disappointed by their lack of thoroughness and background research. In fact, we were shocked to realize the production was putting dangerous misinformation into the public domain—which, wittingly or unwittingly, supported the canned-hunting industry. Finally, I made the difficult decision of dissociating from this production entirely. Their final product subsequently went on to the international circuit, then thankfully was withdrawn due to public outcry at its factual inaccuracies and misplaced support of the canned-hunting industry. But they resurrected the documentary again, having removed the canned-hunting promotional sections and left in interviews with “authorities” expounding the view that White Lions would never survive in the wild. I reflected on the ego of these so-called experts, pontificating without evidence and without giving Nature a chance. Unfortunately, this convenient argument has since been taken up by the canned-hunting industry to justify keeping White Lions in cages. With all the other challenges facing Marah, I’ve watched how the man-made pressures and vested interests keep mounting against her on all fronts. So now, as I take this giant step to allow her a chance to prove herself, despite all the obstacles humans have placed in her way, I pray she will succeed in the wild, against all odds.
A National Geographic crew have filmed Marah’s story over the past few months, impressing us with their meticulous wildlife film-making methods and respectful approach to the cats and their territorial space. All things considered, it is important that this film crew should have the rights to cover this historic moment. So Jason has gotten the message to them that we are planning the release tomorrow, and two cameramen have joined us this evening for the final dry run. They’ll be spending the night in our temporary accommodation, in tents beside the Tsau River.
All prepped and raring to go, our whole team has finally dispersed, and I am finally preparing for bed.
Beaming from ear to ear, Xhosa pops his head out of the bathroom, toothbrush in hand, echoing Godmum’s words, “Parachutes inflated, team! Weeee! Here we go—gonna be quite a rush! Get your beauty sleep, everyone. Tomorrow’s on—come hell or high water!”
Something in my bones tells me that Xhosa has just given us a weather forecast. IT’S 3:00 A.M. The team’s gathered around the kitchen table again, drenched with rainwater.
“Wish you hadn’t said that, X!” I comment in a mock scolding voice. “Now all hell’s broken loose, and high waters are everywhere!”
“And that’s before we’ve even gotten close to opening the gates,” Jason adds, shaking his head.
“Sorry, Linda; sorry, Jason!’ Xhosa responds, his dreadlocks bedraggled.
We’ve gathered in the kitchen without lights, only a flickering candle. The storm must have taken down trees and electric lines. There’s lightning flashing on all horizons, and the downpour is intensifying. On the one hand, everyone’s utterly relieved the endless drought has finally broken! Rain at long last! But water is pouring through the ceiling in numerous places all over the house, and one leak is actually streaming in just above the kitchen table itself.
“Can I at least get a bucket to catch the rain?” Xhosa offers.
“Every bucket, pot, and pan’s already in use—all over the house,” I say. “Take a candle, and look for yourself!”
There’s no point trying to sleep either—our double bed is totally soaked.
IT’S A DIMLY LIT MORNING. NOW 6:00 A.M. on our intended day of release. I venture out into the mud bath just beyond our kitchen door to check the rain gauge. Over 140 milliliters of torrential rain fell overnight, flooding our ramshackle farmhouse. An urgent message is crackling over the radio from Nelson, warning us that the floodwater took down perimeter fences at river outlets. The Tsau River has burst its banks. Tree trunks thundering down the flooded ravines have upended load-bearing poles embedded in concrete, washing away areas of fence line. Now Nelias’s voice is on the radio, informing us the bridge he built nearly fifty years ago for the previous owners, spanning the dry river canyon, has been washed away.
These are unforeseen circumstances, and we immediately have to revise our plan for releasing the pride. Instead, a massive clean-up operation is about to commence. All hands available must assist in reerecting the electrics on the fences, patching the roads, and restoring the infrastructure.
It’s Valentine’s Day, but the mood is serious and hyperfocused.
Worried that the lions themselves may now be roaming free in the deluge, we urgently need to secure our perimeters. That’s Jason’s emergency mission. He immediately heads off with his team to temporarily stave up the flattened sections of external fence line. As he pulls out, he instructs Thomas to proceed on foot and join up with Nelson at the flooded river, in order to contact the film crew and inform them of the entirely new game plan. With the electricity down, our radios have run out of charge, which means there’s no way of contacting the crew in their camp by the river. There’s even the unimaginable possibility that the cameramen have been washed away in the flood! Thomas will check on them urgently, and all being well, his next step will be to rescue the water pump from being washed away at the highwater mark.
MY WELLIES ARE UP TO THE ANKLES in mud, and I am about to climb into the Land Rover in order to head out to the lions and make sure all is well in their boma. Mine was the last radio message before our radio power failed, so I am relieved to see Nelias waiting for me en route, as instructed. He’ll be able to assist me with the lions, in case of a crisis.
Driving in low range through roads of thick mud, I take care to follow the central route without any detours, as Jason advised. With the dry riverbeds now flooded, many roads are impassable. Most secondary roads I cross en route are rushing like rivers, churning with ruddy topsoil. Sitting beside me with a solemn expression, Nelias is comparing the deluge with his memory of the fifty-year floodline; only, he says, this flood was higher.
I engage the diff lock. With the wheels spinning, I’m just able to traverse a newly gouged trench across our path. Months ago in the midst of the drought, our bush squad started
to prepare for the rainy season, laying two-meter-thick gabions under the earth’s surface below the fenceline at the river outlets: large submerged “cages” of wire mesh, filled with rocks to ensure they remain immovable in times of flooding. Crossing one of these submerged gabions now, I am relieved to see that our structure has held under the torrent.
Nelias and I are finally at the lions’ boma, where we see at a glance that both the north and south poles of Marah’s camp have blown down. The dense netting we hung as a feeding screen acted as a sail in the blustering overnight winds, pulling the poles out of their foundations. But we are also relieved to see that all of the cats are huddled together in the middle of their fenced area, looking radiant and newly washed down, staring out at us like beacons—perfectly safe and sound. With the weak morning sun shining through, droplets of rain shimmer like multicolored diamonds in their snow-white fur. No problem there!
Not knowing whether the perimeter of our reserve is secured yet, however, it’s vital to contain the big cats safely in their boma. Jason’s original design created two bomas joined by a central fence, so I need to get the family into the western boma in order for Nelias to restore their fencing poles without incident. I drop Nelias at the central point, where he picks up a heavy metal chain, preparing to tug the central sliding gate closed, as soon as Marah and her cubs follow me through. With this strategy in mind, I drive along the border of their western boma, calling to them. Sure enough, the curious cats come bounding over to my vehicle, giving Nelias just the opportunity he needs to close them safely into the western boma with a forceful tug of the sliding gate. He then sets about restoring the poles to their vertical position, and I assist him in fixing them in place temporarily with rocks. Unusually, the curious lions don’t come to investigate; instead they’re frolicking in the interior. After more than eight months of drought, they are clearly celebrating the rains, however destructive these torrents have apparently been to our carefully laid plans.
I need to get back to assess the emergency salvage operations. Driving along slowly, I look out over the sodden landscape. I don’t quite yet comprehend why Nature has been so uncooperative. Naturally, the release will have to be postponed until further risk assessment.
Feeling the clay churning up beneath my wheels, I put my foot down on the fuel, carving deeper and deeper into the earth, then lose control as the chassis starts to slip, slide, and finally tilt over into a deep groove. Exasperated, I realize I’ve gotten us totally stuck! Climbing out, I can see at a glance that the vehicle is so deeply stuck in the mud that it’s pointless even trying to dig us out with the spade Jason has secured to the rear door. Instead, Nelias and I have to abandon the Land Rover and begin our long trudge back to camp.
Mud-spattered and still somewhat shamefaced for having gotten our primary vehicle stuck in the mud, I finally arrive back at camp. Cibi and Sam come careering through the wet pools outside the kitchen to meet and greet Nelias and me. I enter the kitchen and see all parties accounted for. I feel ashamed but quickly learn, in fact, that all the other vehicles—the film crew’s truck, Jason’s other Land Rover, and the tractor—are stuck as well.
We are going to have to call in outside help to get us out of our situation.
Sitting down, exhausted, with a mug of coffee, I know the only solution to get out of the mire is to redefine the parameters completely. The old order simply won’t hold. A new world order has to be born. So it strikes me that on one level, the floods are a devastating setback. Our plans have been thwarted yet again. Or so it seems. However, on another level, I am beginning to view this natural occurrence as a positive event, opening the gateway for the lions’ freedom.
Having studied signs from Nature through Maria Khosa’s inspiring lessons, I appreciate the symbolic meaning behind the floods. The old bridges are gone. The man-made fences have been taken down by Nature. Floodwaters have passed through the Sacred Lands, cleansing everything in their path. All signs indicate that Mother Nature herself has opened The Way for her beloved children of light.
APRIL 8, 2006. EASTER FRIDAY. 9:00 A.M. It’s taken just over six weeks to salvage and restore the flood damage. A massive task. But we’re back on track. Today, we’re finally ready to open the boma gates and free the lions. I believed I was ready before, but now I know I have Mother Nature on my side. Everything has changed since the floods. This time, nothing and no one will stop us.
I’ve pulled the Land Rover in close to the front entrance of the boma, alongside the film crew’s vehicle, which is optimally positioned for a perfect view of the gates. Jason has provided the lions with a kudu carcass to keep them preoccupied at the far corner of the boma, and he’s monitoring their activities from the pickup truck.
Around me, the habitat has transformed into lush green foliage, dense with ground cover, unrecognizable from the wasteland that existed before. The savanna is verdant, with the trees full-canopied, and thick grasses have grown through the bleached skeletons, concealing the ravages of the long drought.
We didn’t intentionally plan the significance of this date—Easter Friday—we simply found that we were ready and nothing would delay us further. I still don’t have the final permit to sanction the step I’m about to take, but I no longer care. I don’t need permission to support Mother Nature and protect her sacred White Lions.
“All on track my side,” Jason’s voice comes over the radio, loud and clear, cool and professional. “Countdown,” he instructs.
“Okay, heading for the gates—now,” I respond, tremulously pushing open the Land Rover door and climbing out. “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four …” I say into the radio as I walk toward the gates.
Proceeding step by step, undetected by the lions in the far boma, I approach the gates, key in hand. My heart’s pounding with love and pride, and I don’t even attempt to stop the tears streaming down my face. I can feel Mireille’s loving presence with me, as if she’s here, as always, holding my hand. And Maria, and Ingwavuma.
A few meters away, the cameras are beginning to roll.
“Tell us how you’re feeling,” a voice instructs through a loudspeaker.
I agreed to Reuters International joining National Geographic for this epic event. I’ve also allowed my dear friend, Brad Laughlin, to cover the story for personal records, so that we might share this moment with friends and supporters. Brad and Leslie have spent much of the last six weeks with me, generously assisting in every possible way. Today, in order to minimize impact on the lions, the agreement was that all three cameramen cram into one vehicle, together with their equipment. Everyone was very obliging. I’ve reached the gates now, and I momentarily turn my head to observe them, squeezed into the Nat-Geo army-style Land Cruiser with slots to hold lenses, and no elbow room. It’s hot out here in the sun. It must be a roasting oven in there!
“This is the moment I’ve been waiting for—for five years …” I respond.
Turning my full attention on the boma gates again, I place the key in the Yale lock, my hand trembling, and I step back. Both boma gates swing wide open.
I get back behind the wheel of the Land Rover and wait breathlessly. I’m totally on edge with excitement and anticipation, every nerve ending is wired into the lions’ next steps. Once the first White Lion paw places its imprint into freedom on this fateful day, a whole new chapter will begin!
Leslie is sitting expectantly beside me in the passenger seat. A spiritual teacher, she’s dedicated many years of her life to refining her metaphysical abilities, and over the lead-up to today’s event, Leslie and I often had sat quietly together with the lions, communicating and receiving their telepathic answers. We communicated with them about the challenges they’ll face once they’re released into their extended natural habitat, focusing our communications on Marah and reminding her of the urgent need to master her hunting techniques, and the dangers she may encounter at the fence lines. We also explained telepathically that these borders are only temporary, and that, as soon a
s humanly possible, we’ll be attempting to expand our natural territories and reclaim more land.
Now, with the gates standing open for the first time, Leslie and I quietly tune in to Marah, conveying what she may expect once she leaves the safety of the boma.
“Zihra heading in your direction!” Jason’s voice crackles through the radio, unable to mask his own excitement.
From my position, Zihra’s been out of sight until now, but I suddenly catch sight of her sleek, lynx-like figure through the binoculars, emerging from the farthest corner of the boma, behind the lush grass. She’s spotted the open gate! Now she’s pussyfooting her way toward the exit, tentatively, casting a backward glance over her shoulder for her mother. The boys are following her, cautiously, heads bobbing up and down with curiosity, and floppy paws lifted high with each step as they follow their sister’s lead through the long grass. Through the binoculars I can see their expressions and swishing tails show pure excitement!
Only Marah’s holding back. I don’t doubt she knows exactly what’s taking place today, so the pressure on her must be absolutely immense. But what’s she thinking? Is she having doubts? She needs sanction from no one, so why’s she waiting?
By definition, a leader doesn’t follow. A true leader takes the first step into the unknown, without guarantees, without official mandate, without road maps to follow—only her heart and inner knowledge of fairness and justice. There are no guarantees. Knowing full well the weight of responsibility in charting the first steps into the unknown, a leader takes these steps regardless. She doesn’t wait for human consciousness to be approving or condoning; she takes consciousness with her as she courageously breaks new ground on behalf of humanity. That’s the nature of leadership.
I look deep into the distant reaches of the boma through my binoculars, searching for my adored lioness. She’s entirely out of sight, but Jason on the far side reports by radio that she’s making no sign of wanting to leave her captive quarters. He says she has one paw on the kudu carcass, her head facing forward, poised in a classic sphinx position.
