The camp had few amenities – it was a nine-mile walk to the river for a shower – but what it did have was independence. I loved working for George and continued to do so for years, but from day one at Kampi ya Chui I was in charge. The leopards were my project and I was assisting no one. With this freedom came great pressure. I was being given a chance and couldn’t afford to fail. I immersed myself in the new challenge and, as when Freddie had first arrived, girlfriends and social life fell by the wayside.
The leopards loved the camp straight away. They shot into the artificial rock cave I had built for them and spent practically all their time in there while they adjusted to their new lives. Later they came and played in the tree that we had enclosed or on the swing we had made with an old tyre, but the cave was always their favourite spot. Unlike the lion compounds, the leopard compounds had to be fenced across the top as well as the sides. The chain-link was buried three feet into the ground and secured there with rocks before the earth was replaced and packed tight. This wasn’t so much to stop the cubs escaping – although it did – as to stop predators getting in. As with lions, almost everything kills leopard cubs – from the usual suspects like lions and hyenas to more unlikely creatures, like snakes and baboons. Baboons are famous for their eyesight, waterbuck for their hearing, so they tend to live together, watching each other’s backs and thriving on the symbiosis. In Kora this relationship had gone one step further – with the shooting of all the leopards in the 1940s, the baboons had multiplied in both numbers and effrontery to the point at which they constituted a heightened danger to the new arrivals. The ones that lived on the rocks above Kampi ya Chui were furious with the usurpers and were always looking for ways to get at them.
When I had first arrived at Kora, George had asked me what I’d like to do: be warden of the area or set up and run a leopard camp? ‘The leopards,’ I replied, and ten years later I had got it. The lions had been George’s – except for Freddie – but the leopards were mine. It was exciting to have a project of my own. Although much of the work we had done with lions was transferable to leopards, I often had to review our methods because the leopards were so solitary, shy and small. After a couple of weeks I started putting minced meat into their milk. Gradually I added chunks and eventually whole animals. I once stole a dikdik from a martial eagle that had just killed it, and had no qualms about feeding the cubs roadkill or anything else I found. I wanted them to get used to wild animals rather than the domestic meat we bought in Asako for the lions. There was plenty around for them – leopards will eat anything, from lizards and birds to kudu and warthogs. The local elephants came to investigate the new camp, sniffing the poles and the mesh with their trunks, and after a month or two of great circumspection, Koretta and the other lions came for a look too.
I found that leopards were much more nocturnal than lions, which was handy because I had by no means given up on the lions. I spent most of my days with George, following our normal routines of looking for and walking with the lions, then returned to Kampi ya Chui where the leopards were just starting to wake up and play. Intrinsically cautious and untrusting, the leopards nonetheless allowed me into their lives, a privilege that came with huge responsibility. We called the male Attila, after PA and Agneta’s surfing dog; the female we named Komunyu after the rocks above camp but we usually called her Squeaks because of her large compendium of strange noises. The leopards were at their most active between three a.m. and dawn so I didn’t get much sleep. I had always drunk very little in the bush, making up for it when I was away, but with the arrival of the leopards I stopped drinking almost entirely: I didn’t have time for a hangover.
It was fortunate that around the time I started living with the leopards a Nairobi doctor called Andrew Meyerhold started visiting Kora. He and Fritz Strahammer often came up for the weekend in separate planes, merely for the joy of flying and spending some time with George and the lions. Wonderful guests, they always brought fresh food and other supplies and Andrew was able to keep an eye on both Adamsons’ health and, indeed, mine. George and Terence were getting old and often fell prey to infections brought in by the myriad visitors. Terence had suffered a stroke during one of his bouts of malaria and George was developing all sorts of strange allergies that eventually required him to sleep with an oxygen cylinder by his bed and cut down heavily on his pipe. Andrew’s visits took a great weight off my shoulders and I’m sure the Flying Doctors were pleased too as Andrew spotted many of George and Terence’s illnesses before they became emergencies.
Shortly after I had moved down to Kampi ya Chui, Bob and Gill Marshall-Andrews came out with their kids. It was wonderful to be able to show them my achievements. One day I went in with the leopards and got scratched on my hand. Laura, their nine-year-old daughter, who is now a highly qualified doctor, remembers to this day my coming out and washing my hands in Ajax cleaner. ‘Best stuff for it,’ I said. I had nothing else around.
We now had a leopard and lion programme going strong, and although we lived on the breadline, our achievements then were pretty impressive to an outsider. Jojo’s daughter Naja had two new cubs, Koretta had hers and the leopards were thriving on their diet of milk powder, cod liver oil, minced meat, Farex and calcium lactate. It was good to show people who had spent so much of their own time setting up the Trust for us that we were genuinely doing something useful. In Kora, I was in my element. When they had seen me last I had been in theirs. Nevertheless, things were not running as smoothly as they might have been. The origin of our leopards was still a problem, although George had driven to Nairobi and written to Daniel Sindiyo, the new director of Wildlife, pleading to be allowed to keep the cubs.
The leopards were so different from the lions that it was hard to adjust from minute to minute. I had to be careful that I treated them appropriately and remembered which particular big cat’s world I was living in. You have to watch your back with lions but they are much more friendly than leopards – they are always greeting each other and they greeted us but you can’t force a greeting out of a leopard. Although they can inflict a great deal of damage, leopards are much smaller than lions. Leopards hide and never show themselves unless they have to, while lions only hide when they are hunting or protecting their cubs. Leopards still live right in the centre of Nairobi but the residents never see them. They only notice they’re around when they return home to find their Labrador’s eviscerated remains at the bottom of the garden – one of our leopards came to us when it was trapped, drinking out of a bath, on a new Nairobi housing estate. Lions are gregarious and relaxed in the open; leopards are nervous and solitary and hide in caves. They can also run up to the thinnest of branches in the tallest of trees.
I had learnt from George and the lions that it’s no use trying to treat a wild animal as a pet. If you do, you take away their innate wildness, which is the exact opposite of what we were trying to do at Kora. You cannot impose yourself on a big cat. You have to attune yourself to working with it so you think and react as it would, behaving naturally and firmly without a hint of fear. They can smell pretence and panic from miles away. It’s hard to learn how to do this; you just have to do it. Gradually you get better and better. George, even at the end of his life, was able to work with lions born in the wild and in captivity in a way that I don’t think anyone will ever rival. They knew he was old and frail, yet they treated him with respect until the very end.
George and I survived with big cats for so long because we came instinctively to understand not just their behaviour, their flicking tails and their crouched shoulders, but something more than that. ‘It’ had to be felt. And over the years we felt ‘it’ more and more. The key was to embrace their wildness, not try to tame them. Sometimes that wildness would trigger something in them: lying down in front of the lions, for example, triggered a charge. Sometimes in play they wanted to get rougher with us but were stopped by our voices, which reminded them that we were just human beings. It wasn’t us ordering them to stop as one woul
d with a dog. It was them deciding to stop.
I, too, had what might be called ‘a way’ with lions and leopards. It came, I think, from total absorption and from the fact that they knew I would do anything for them. As with the lions, I offered the leopards my friendship; I spoke kindly to them and looked after them when they couldn’t look after themselves. Initially they were deeply suspicious but gradually they let me do more for them, to the point at which I was able to fit them with radio collars and tend even the most painful of their wounds. I felt an extraordinary responsibility for them and threw myself into providing their care. And I would like to think they felt safe with George and me because they saw that we understood them and were sympathetic towards them.
By the end of 1981, the leopards were becoming well adjusted to life in Kora and would come for long walks in the bush. Squeaks was much more relaxed than Attila but both greeted me and came to my call. Walking with lions had been very different. Unless they are hunting, when they skulk almost as well as a leopard, lions walk down the middle of the road, heads held high, afraid of nothing. Leopards are always on their guard, slinking from cover to cover, quick to climb a tree at the slightest hint of trouble and quite impossible to see unless they want to be found. We were able to introduce a few of our close friends to the easier lions under very controlled circumstances but with the leopards I had to be very careful. They do not like and are wholly suspicious of people. In Squeaks’s case, it was even worse. She adored me and was jealous of any women that came into camp. I had to keep my girlfriends well away from her or she would go for them with teeth and claws bared.
Dave Allen, an ace bush pilot, wildlife guide and former hunter, often used to fly in with his clients and we would always try to show them the lions; we could seldom let them interact with the leopards. These flying visits were always a treat as Dave never came empty-handed and his clients would often leave us a cheque to pay for some camel meat or fill up a car with fuel. On one of his visits Dave delivered a letter from the director of Wildlife. George passed it to me without a word. I feared the worst when I saw the National Parks rhino crest on the writing paper but I need not have worried. Jack Barrah had worked his magic and asking for forgiveness had worked: we could keep the leopards.
George and I were now living eight miles apart and the only way we could talk to each other was by driving to and fro. It was a crazy and potentially dangerous situation as security deteriorated. Howard Wood – a friend and communications expert – met me at Wilson airport one day where he had devised a VHF system for us that he later helped me install at Kora. It transformed our lives almost as much as the radio collars had done in the seventies. George and I could now talk from camp to camp and in between cars. We could communicate much better with the outside world through the Laikipia security network and even with Maalim Shora in Asako. He kept us abreast of shifta movements. Even better, on the long nights I spent at Kampi ya Chui I could imitate Tony Hancock and get in touch with people all over the world on a new HF set. I joined the Radio Society of Kenya and even started to learn Morse code. Little did I know that my growing interest in communications would provide a stick with which the authorities could beat me.
While I was down in Nairobi I witnessed a tragic moment when my great friend Bill Woodley’s flying career came to an abrupt end in the harsh glare of Kenya’s flying community. Bill was one of the best pilots I have ever flown with; he had a sureness yet delicacy of touch in the air that was admired by all. He had spent tens of thousands of hours on small planes, flying mountain-rescue and anti-poaching missions for the National Parks, and had helped me to learn how to fly. That day, we had lunch at Wilson airport’s Aero Club with Cheryl Tiegs, the American model who was dating the photographer Peter Beard, both of us showing off in front of the world-famous vision of beauty. I watched as Bill and Cheryl walked across the apron to fly to Tsavo after lunch. Cheryl had the best legs I have ever seen. Only a fool would have left them unwatched. As they taxied out for take-off the plane veered to the left and started going round and round in circles. I ran out to help and dragged Cheryl from the plane as aircraft mechanic Alan Herd reached in and turned off the power. Bill had suffered an epileptic fit and lost consciousness. He never flew again.
There were good things about lack of communications: people would just appear from nowhere and whisk us off in their planes for the day. Whether it was Dave Allen flying us off for a quick swim at the lodge in Meru National Park or Alan Root offering lunch in Naivasha, I had a fixed policy of always saying yes to an adventure. In late July, Franz Lang flew me down to Malindi to join Khalid deep-sea fishing. I love surfing and swimming but deep-sea fishing is a rich man’s sport I had never played. Khalid was richer than Croesus so we did it in style. We set off in a brand new game-fishing boat before dawn and, despite feeling a bit green about the gills, were starting to enjoy the beers as Khalid played his guitar and we waited for a marlin to strike. We had just arrived at the fishing grounds when a squawking voice came over the radio.
‘Return to Malindi,’ it advised us. ‘There has been a coup in Kenya and the air force has taken over.’
Khalid was shattered. Adnan Khashoggi had given all his children their inheritances early and Khalid had spent a lot of his on Ol Pejeta, a 90,000-acre ranch. Fortunes were blown there on both useful and utterly pointless infrastructure. Mike Harries – the RevCop: so-called because he was chaplain general to the police for many years – had built a bridge there that was designed with the sole purpose of allowing Adnan to drive his low-clearance Mercedes from one side of the river to the other. It still bears a notice asking elephants to show due care and attention by only crossing one at a time. Khalid was terrified that his investment – which borders Kenya’s main air-force base – was about to go up in smoke.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said, with the nonchalance of one with nothing to lose. ‘In three days it will all be over. In three months, people will be asking, ‘What coup?’ and in three years everything will be back to normal.’
I was right. Even by the time we got back to Malindi everything had calmed down. It was a bit quieter than usual but the police told us we were all welcome and everything was under control. It was the only time I have ever seen Khalid really rattled. Khalid was one of the richest people in the world in the eighties but now lives in a tiny apartment in New Jersey, completely adjusted to the change in his fortunes and as loyal a friend as ever. It must run in the blood. His mother, Soraya, was once famous for her riches yet now sells flowers to the people who used to laugh at her extravagance and lives in a small London flat with her son Hussein, who now goes by the name of Sean. How the great fall – the Khashoggis with more style than others, it seems.
When we eventually flew back to Kora a few days later we were full of the news. ‘George, there’s been a coup,’ I said.
‘Yes. I heard about that. I can’t find Koretta.’
I felt much better after the break in Malindi. I had been working very hard, stretching my time between Kampi ya Chui and George’s camp and I was going to need all my energy for the next stage of the leopards’ reintegration. At the beginning of September, after fourteen months of hard work, I fitted collars on to Attila and Squeaks, then released them. So far they had done very well but I was scared they might get themselves into trouble, which was why I had held back their release for so long. Only a few days earlier we had suffered a terrifying experience with a troop of baboons that had highlighted the dangers of life in the bush but also showed me how well the two young leopards could cope.
The three of us were walking on the rocks above camp when we were surrounded by about sixty baboons. Baboons are immensely strong, well capable of ripping off a grown man’s arm, and have huge teeth that rival those of a lion. Furthermore, a full-grown baboon weighs more than a young leopard, particularly Squeaks who was very small indeed. The baboons screamed and bared their teeth at us, making quick lunges towards us and goading each other to attack. I was terrified –
and so was Attila, who shot off into the nearest cave. Squeaks, however, looked disdainfully down her nose and carried on walking towards the baboons as if nothing was happening. I followed her lead, pulse pumping, sweat pouring off me as the big males barked and shook their fists. But they were not as brave as Squeaks and melted away when they realized they weren’t going to get a rise out of her. I was so proud I thought my heart would burst.
Attila immediately started marking territory and disappearing on long safaris; Squeaks made the area around camp into her territory and was always dropping in to say hello. The radio collars that we had to modify for use on the small-headed leopards worked well when they were out in the open. The problem was that leopards are rarely out in the open. They favour thick bush or caves, which muffle radio signals. Unlike the lions, they were almost impossible to track from a vehicle and it became ever more apparent that we needed an aeroplane if the project was to continue successfully. Whenever friends flew in, I asked them to take me up with the radio-tracking equipment, allowing me to cover a huge area in a much shorter time. George continued to hate aircraft but I loved them and was always trying to get people to teach me the rudiments of flight.
Dave Allen – like Bill Woodley and Richard Bonham – was one of the many people who helped me learn to fly when he came to camp or, as often happened, whisked me off for a party. In 1983 Dave and I flew up to see our trustee-lawyer Anthony Gross marry Rowena Murray. It was a great wedding but, as so often happened, there was near disaster while I was away. Squeaks was badly mauled by a warthog that left a puncture wound in her thigh. She was waiting at camp when I got back and, despite the pain, allowed me to clean deep inside the wound with iodine and antibiotic powder. It was astonishing what she allowed me to do for her: it must have been stunningly painful and she could have bitten my hand off in a second. There was great news from Kampi ya Simba, though: George had managed to track down both Growe and Glowe, who had been missing for months. And Glowe had a new set of cubs.
Born Wild Page 15
