The Eye of the Elephant

by Mark James Owens

  Mark pulls the plane around once more in a tight turn, as we watch the standoff on the beach below. We have never seen a lion and a crocodile challenge each other in this way. We fly back to the airstrip, grab our camping gear, and jump into the truck to get a closer look.

  The Luangwa and its tributaries have one of the densest populations of crocodiles in Africa. During the rainy season many of the crocs migrate up the tributaries, returning to the Luangwa in the dry season when the streams dry up. A few crocs—such as this one on the sandbar of the Mwaleshi—stay in the shallow tributaries year round.

  After the long drive from camp along the Mwaleshi, we park the truck under some trees that will make a good campsite, and hurry on foot to the riverbank.

  "That's where they were, I'm sure." I point to a large sandbar on the other side of the Mwaleshi. From this side of the river there is no trace of a struggle between the lion and the crocodile, but we recognize the sandbar by its proximity to the bend in the river.

  We wade into the clear, shallow water, heading for a smaller sandbar, covered in grass, that juts into the main channel. As our feet splash through the water, we both turn our heads this way and that, searching the sandy bottom for signs of a crocodile.

  As I step up onto the sand, slightly ahead of Mark, I scan the deeper water on the other side of the bar. The river is faster here, and murkier, so it is difficult to see the bottom. But as I squint into the current, a curious pattern of reptilian scales takes shape, lying motionless only a yard from my feet. "Mark! He's right here!" I bend over, staring down at the coiled form.

  Mark grabs my shoulder and pulls me back into the shallow current. "Delia, you can't just stand there watching a crocodile! He can fling himself out of there in a flash."

  We back up, walk downstream for fifty yards, and cross to the large sandbar on the far shore where the skeleton of the waterbuck lies twisted on the beach. Kneeling, we study the lion tracks, carved deeply in the moist sand. They tell us that the lionesses grabbed the waterbuck as it stepped out of the tall grass of the floodplain and dragged it across the sandbar. Apparently, all of the lions fed for some time; we saw from the air that the females were quite full, and the tracks tell the same story. Then the lionesses left the carcass, probably chased off by the males. Soon after, the croc rushed in from the river and snatched one end of the kill. He was able to scavenge some of the spoils, but it was obvious that he did not drive the lions off; if he had, he would have dragged the carcass into the river or to his lair.

  There are still many mysteries. Why did the other pride mates, the three lionesses and the male, lie basking in the sun while one male challenged the crocodile? Usually when other scavengers, such as spotted hyenas, vultures, or jackals, approach a fresh lion kill, the pride will chase them off. If the hyenas vastly outnumber the lions, the cats may retreat, but this was only one croc. His tough armor, lightning speed, and very capable jaws presumably give him license enough to feed with lions.

  By watching Serendipity and her pride mates on earlier occasions, we have already learned that the Mwaleshi lions often hunt along the steep riverbanks where the prey species come down to drink. Thus their kills are accessible to the crocodiles. Furthermore, the Mwaleshi is so shallow that there are not many fish for the crocs to eat. To survive here they must be resourceful—even to the point of stealing meat from lions. Could scavenging from lions be a major source of food for these crocs? We will have to search for other lion-croc interactions to see how common such incidents are—and who usually wins.

  The warm sands and cold bones yield no more clues, so we wade back across the river, retracing our wide semicircle around the crocodile. After setting up camp on the banks of the Mwaleshi, we bathe in a very shallow area, taking more care than usual to check for predators.

  Just after dawn, when the river looks like a ribbon of sunrise, the lions roar. We wiggle out of our sleeping bags, take a compass bearing on their position, and set off in that direction on foot. It is much more difficult to follow lions in Luangwa than it was in the Kalahari. In the desert, once we had a good compass bearing on lions, nothing stood in our way except rolling dunes; but here the land is crisscrossed with steep river cuts, dry streambeds, wet streambeds, rivers, lagoons, and eroded craters. At times we have spotted a lion only three hundred yards away and been unable to drive to it.

  As we walk along the Mwaleshi, we come upon a herd of buffalo meandering toward the river. Creeping behind bushes and through the tall grass, we observe them from thirty yards away. Next we surprise a hippo wallowing in a shrinking lagoon. He whirls around and challenges Mark with a gaping mouth and squared-off teeth, while I scurry up a high bank to safety. We hear an elephant trumpeting and see the spoor of a mother and a tiny infant disappearing into the woodlands. There are no sounds or sights of man; it is a safari into old Africa.

  The lions do not roar again, so we continue on the same bearing. When the noon sun is bleached to a blazing white, we see vultures circling over the river's edge and find them feeding on a dead bushbuck. We walk closer, our attention focused on the scrambling vultures.

  A low growl erupts from the bushes. We swing around and two large male lions explode from the undergrowth, toward the river. Fifteen yards away they whirl around to face us. It is the two males from Serendipity Pride. We have made the mistake you cannot make with lions—we have crowded their space.

  We stop in our tracks. They are in an aggressive stance, their heads and massive shoulders pulled to full height. One growls again through closed teeth, as they stare at us with piercing eyes. There is nothing we can do but stand here; if we run, they will almost certainly charge. The male on the right raises his lips, exposing his canines in a snarl, then they both trot away, grunting loudly as they go. The entire encounter has lasted only ten seconds, but it has drained me. Mark and I lean against each other for a moment, and when we regain our legs, walk down to the beach to inspect the dead bushbuck. Although there are no signs of a crocodile, it is one more example of Mwaleshi carnivores making their kills near the river, where they could easily be confronted by crocs.

  After several more long walks in search of lions, we decide to radio collar at least one of the Serendipity Pride members so that we can find them more easily. After dark we play tapes of lion and hyena vocalizations over loudspeakers near an open floodplain. Within thirty seconds, ten spotted hyenas are galloping toward the speakers, and ten minutes later the pride arrives. We want to dart Serendipity herself, but as they walk by the truck in single file, Mark has a better shot at one of the smaller females. He darts her. When the syringe stings her flank, she whirls around and trots toward the river. If she crosses the Mwaleshi before the drug takes effect, we will be unable to follow and collar her. Just at the water's edge she sways and stumbles, and finally succumbs.

  As I watch the other lions with the spotlight, Mark walks up to her and nudges her gently with his foot to ensure that she is properly sedated, then I move the truck closer. As we begin to collar her, the other lions lie watching in a rough semicircle forty yards away. Shining the spotlight around every few minutes, I keep an eye on them; but the spotlight bulb burns out. Unbelievably, the backup spotlight also blows. We have to keep tabs on the curious, undarted lions with the weak beam of our flashlight as we collar, ear tag, and weigh the lioness.

  Finally we finish and name her Kora, after the beloved Kenya bush country of George Adamson, who was murdered by Somali ivory poachers. These poachers cross into Kenya, shoot elephants, and smuggle the tusks back to Somalia, which is heavily involved in the illegal exportation of ivory. Adamson had attempted for years to defend the Kora Reserve against these pirates, but eventually they shot him to death and he became yet another victim of the ivory trade.

  The next morning, by listening to Kora's signal, we find that the pride has crossed the river. Carrying the antenna, radio receiver, and rifle, we wade across the Mwaleshi, following the beep-beep-beep of her collar. On the other side, the grass is so
high that even when we part it with our arms we still can see only two feet ahead. The needle on the amp meter goes into the red, indicating that we are very close to the lions, but all we can see are grass stems and blue sky. We listen for the sounds of lions walking in the grass. Nothing. Mark motions me forward, but I point behind us, suggesting that we retreat. Mark shakes his head, and we walk on slowly, parting the grass, trying to see ahead, listening.

  The signal remains strong and constant as we go forward. The lions must be staying just ahead of us, moving in the same direction at the same speed. Quiet as we try to be, we know they can hear us coming. Again I suggest a retreat. Whispering, I say that we can't see them in this tall grass anyway, and we might stumble upon them unexpectedly and frighten them. I don't mention that I am already scared silly, and that this scheme is just plain foolish. "Just a few more minutes," Mark whispers. We stalk on through the grass for another ten minutes before giving up and heading back to our little camp on the Mwaleshi.

  The next day we walk the beach, following the lion tracks and scanning for vultures, but we cannot find the pride or pick up the signal. Tomorrow we must return to Marula-Puku to continue the antipoaching and village programs. But as soon as time allows, we will return with the airplane, And the radio-collared lioness, and observe the pride in more detail.

  As we are breaking camp at dawn, we see a swarm of vultures across the river on the same sandbar where we first saw Serendipity Pride and the croc. Pulling and tearing on a puku carcass, the vultures glare with beady eyes as we wade the river. When we step onto the sandbar, they lift off in a flurry of flapping wings.

  The vultures have not been here long, and the story of the kill is still etched in the sand: the lions killed their prey on the sandbar, and once again the crocodile rushed from the river to grab a share.

  "This croc's really got something going," Mark says, as he inspects the remains of the puku.

  "And there he is." I point to the river's edge, where the croc is lying in shallow water, his massive back rising above the surface, his flat head held up, mouth open, exposing a row of jagged, uneven teeth. He looks incongruously as if he is grinning. Mark steps slowly toward him, and I follow a few steps behind. The croc doesn't budge at our approach; he obviously owns this beach. When Mark is ten yards away, the croc hisses and snaps, warning him not to come any closer. And I remind Mark of his words: "You can't just stand there watching a crocodile."

  As we turn to leave, we see a cyclone of black smoke rising in the south. The poachers are back in the park. Our short days of lion watching are over.

  The wide, unfamiliar waters of the Mutinondo River spread before me. The only other time I have seen this river, it was a raging torrent, sweeping past with driftwood on its bow. Now its clear waters lap gently at grassy shores and its current whispers quietly over polished stones.

  "Well, it looks okay to me. What do you think, Marie?"

  Marie Hill, a Texan, and her husband, Harvey, live in Mpika, where he is the representative for the Canadian Wheat Project. Marie has volunteered to coordinate our conservation education program, which has grown too large for Mark and me to handle from camp.

  "Yeah, it looks okay to me, too," Marie drawls.

  "Let's go for it." I ease the front tires into the river and start across. We're on our way to Nabwalya, one of the picturesque villages in the Luangwa Valley, to begin our village and school programs. Many of the poaching expeditions into the park begin in Nabwalya; it is essential to win the people there over to our side.

  To get this far I have had to drive up the scarp to Mpika to pick up Marie, and down the scarp on another track south of the park. Nabwalya is completely cut off during the rainy season, and not many trucks reach the village at any time of year. My Toyota is overflowing with medicines for the clinic, materials for the school, emergency protein rations for the hungry, our gear—an array of duffel bags, sleeping bags, camera cases, food boxes—and a watermelon for the chief. Balancing on top of this load are our educational assistant, the village medical officer, a schoolteacher, and the Nabwalya mail carrier, who usually has to walk for four days to reach the village from Mpika.

  The river is shallow and easy to ford, and although the rest of the track is grueling at times, we make it to the village by four in the afternoon. The first thing we must do is pay our respects to the chief, so we send a runner ahead to announce our arrival. After we drive across an abandoned field, we find him and his headmen waiting for us in his n'saka. Nabwalya is young for a chief, alert, articulate, and progressive. He welcomes us warmly in perfect English, and we pass out our gifts— International Wildlife magazines and the watermelon. After a few moments of polite greetings, we ask for permission to begin our programs in his village, and he says that he has been waiting for us.

  "Of course, you will stay in the 'guest palace,'" the chief says. "We have made a very nice guest palace for the tourists when they come. My headman will show you the way."

  The new guest area is indeed a palace: two large bungalows, a n'saka, and a latrine, all made of woven grass and reeds. The roofs, doors, and windows of each structure have been trimmed with decorative spirals of grass. The charming encampment is perched on the high bank of the wide Munyamadzi River, just outside the village. A group of hippos have already begun their night song as we start to unpack. I am enchanted with the guest palace, but a little worried about how soon Chief Nabwalya expects the tourists to start coming.

  The first camper to rise is usually rewarded, and the next morning is no exception. As I stoke last night's coals at 4:45 A.M., I hear the swish, swish of hippo feet in shallow water. Below me, just as the river turns a bright orange from dawn, a hippo strolls past, silhouetted against the shimmering water. In the faint light I can see the outlines of thatched huts and the smoke from a few cooking fires. It is a rare moment of people and wildlife together in harmony.

  It is also the last moment of peace we have for four days. Marie, Mukuka (our assistant), and I present our conservation slide show to one hundred fifty villagers packed into the mud-brick schoolhouse. At our prompting, Chief Nabwalya explains to his people that many of their problems will be solved if the village can make money from tourism, but it will happen only if the poachers stop shooting the wildlife in North Luangwa.

  With many of the curious villagers in tow, we deliver medicines to the clinic and talk with the medical officer about his problems. The first thing we notice is that all the patients are lying on reed mats on the floor, while the rusty hospital beds are stacked in a corner draped with spiderwebs. The medic tells us that poachers have stolen the bolts from the beds to make bullets. Never missing a chance to deliver our message, we point out to the patients that the poachers are their enemies and that we will get more bolts for the beds.

  Next we inspect the airstrip, which is under construction by laborers we had hired earlier. When it is complete, the Flying Doctor can land and the village will not be so isolated during the rains.

  Sunlight beams through holes in the walls of the schoolroom. Standing at the front, Marie and I encourage the children to draw posters asking the poachers not to kill the animals near their village. We wait for the children to color on the white paper we've given them, but unlike the students in the other villages, the Nabwalya children only stare at the page.

  "Why aren't they drawing?" I whisper to the teacher.

  "They have never had their own sheet of clean, white paper," he whispers back. "They are afraid to spoil it."

  After we promise the children that we will bring more paper for them, they slowly begin to draw. A little girl sketches a hippo with ten babies under the caption, "Please Mr. Poacher Do Not Shoot the Hippo She Has Many Children." Later, walking along the well- worn footpaths, we and the children post their pictures throughout the village on trees and stumps.

  On visiting the game guards of Nabwalya, we discover that they have never mounted a patrol in North Luangwa because they would have to cross several rivers wit
h many crocodiles. When I point out that the poachers cross the rivers, they tell me that crocs do not attack criminals. They agree to patrol the park if we buy a small banana boat for them. Before leaving their camp, we give out T-shirts to all the game guards' children.

  Steaming campfire coffee and hippos silhouetted against the dawn begin the last morning. The sun is especially welcome, because the village drummers have celebrated a wedding all night and only now end their rowdy beat. Exhausted, Marie, Mukuka, and I cook toast and oatmeal over the fire. We still face breaking camp and driving up the scarp. As I struggle toward the truck with a large food box, I hear a familiar sound drifting in from the distance. Our plane. None of the others have heard it.

  I rush to the riverbank and wait. I know Mark; he will soar along the river course, just above the water and below treetop level, until he finds me. He knows me, too, and has guessed that I am camped somewhere along the river.

  In seconds the plane appears just above the water, almost level with our grass palace. Marie and I wave frantically. Mark holds a note from the window, signaling that he will drop it on the next pass. I run to a clearing behind the camp and watch him circle back, figuring it is a shopping list for Mpika or some other errand he wants me to run before returning to camp. As the plane soars past, Mark flings the note, tied to string and a rock, out the window. I tear it open and read: "Greetings, my love. Come home to me. You have been away too long. I have a special surprise for you. Love, M." True, there is a short shopping list below, but the love part comes first. I hold the paper high in the air, signaling to Mark that I have received his message. He waggles his wings and flies south toward camp. "It's a love letter," I say to Marie. "He flew all this way to bring me a love letter. I've got to get back to camp!"