Scarred Lions (8 page)

The Land Rover drove past. Inside were Themba and Lwazi.

Lwazi had a rifle with him. The Land Rover stopped at the Namhlanje gate. Lwazi got out to open it. He stopped for a moment, looking around as if he had heard something.

No, please! I begged silently.

Time seemed to stretch on endlessly.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Themba.

Lwazi shrugged and lifted the latch off the gate. Themba made his way through. We watched in stunned silence as Lwazi closed the gate again.

That was really close.

A thunderstorm broke out that afternoon. Flashes of lightning shattering the darkened sky.

I stood at the front door, gazing at the spectacle, but shrinking back every time a bolt of lightning came thundering down, echoing against the Waterberg.

Suddenly I heard a fear-filled yelping.

‘Umfana!’ The word was almost like a cry. ‘I’m coming!’

The rain came pouring down now. Huge drops knocking holes in the dry sand. I guess I should have taken an umbrella, but it was too late to turn back now. I was already soaked.

Umfana strained at his chain. His tail wagging anxiously.

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. But it didn’t calm him down. The yelps were louder now. His body twisting and turning, making it difficult for me to undo the catch on his collar.

Another crash of lightning.

It was quite close.

‘Got it!’ I sighed as the clip opened. ‘Come, boy!’

We were both soaked to the bone as we stepped into the chalet. But at least we were out of the storm. I fetched a towel from the bathroom, and undressed, leaving my wet clothes in a heap on the floor. I dried myself before slipping on another pair of jeans.

Umfana had already started shaking his coat dry in the kitchen. ‘No!’ I cried. ‘Do you want the old man to freak out?’ I used my towel to dry him properly. He still smelled
like a wet dog. My towel too. I dropped it on the heap of wet clothes in my room.

The rain came down hard now, splodging the windows. Umfana kept on whining every time the thunder boomed.

‘Would you like me to put on some music?’ I asked. ‘It will drown out the thunder. Do you like British bands? Or do you prefer American? Sorry, I don’t have any African music.’

Umfana tilted his head, listening intently. As if he understood every word I said. I loved it!

‘British it is then!’

Soon the sounds of Razorlight filled the chalet. I almost didn’t hear the telephone ringing. Turning down the volume on the hi-fi, I answered the phone.

‘Hey, Buyi!’

‘Mum!’

‘Are you doing well?’

‘You know me.’

‘Making friends?’

I told her about André and Simoshile. Leaving out the bit about the marriage tree.

‘And how is Africa?’

‘Way different from London. And guess what, it’s raining here!’

‘Oh bother! Can’t get away from the rain, can you?’

‘At least it doesn’t rain for days on end here. Most days are sunny and extremely hot.’

‘Are you and your dad coping?’

‘Yeah,’ I lied, ‘we get along fine. Don’t worry.’

‘You should help out around the house. Don’t sit around watching TV all day, you hear me?’

‘TV? He doesn’t even have one!’

‘No television? That must be doing you a load of good. And the fresh air too.’

‘No scarcity of that in the bush!’

We talked and laughed for quite a while. I kept quiet about my encounter with the hippos and the lion. It would just upset Mum. She complained about work, the neighbours who’d had a huge fight, soccer hooligans taking to the streets after last night’s game.

And eventually we had to say goodbye.

I sat there with a stupid grin on my face, thankful to have heard Mum’s voice again. Glad that she was coping.

Umfana fell asleep with his head on my lap. I let my fingers run through his coat
and watched his ears twitch every now and again.

The thunder had stopped but it was still raining, the mellow scent of soaked plants and sodden earth rushing into the chalet. Inhaling it deeply, I leaned back on the couch. For the first time in quite a while I felt happy.

I must have dozed off, but was woken an hour later by the sound of a Land Rover’s engine.

Themba!

I was on my feet in a flash. Umfana was still in the house. ‘Come boy!’ I whispered. ‘Come!’ He wasn’t too keen on going back out into the rain. I opened the kitchen door and pushed him out. Just in time.

The front door opened. I heard Themba stamping his feet at the door, probably to get some of the mud off his shoes.

‘Hi, Themba.’

I saw him taking off his shoes and socks before he entered. His clothes were soaked like mine had been earlier. Perhaps even worse. His legs and chest were splattered with mud.

‘We got caught in the rain,’ he said, taking off his shirt. He wiped the rain off his forehead. ‘Have you had dinner?’

I shook my head. Now that he mentioned it, I did feel hungry.

‘Why not?’ he asked.

‘I fell asleep on the couch.’

‘You should eat when I’m not here. There’s food in the cupboard and the fridge. I can’t hang around preparing breakfast, dinner and lunch for you, Buyisiwe. I’ve got to work. And I don’t want you carrying stories to Mama Unahti about me not taking care of you.’

‘I never said that.’

‘That’s what she told me. I don’t have time to babysit you, Buyi. You understand?’

I nodded.

‘What is this mess?’ he asked, pointing to the heap of wet clothes and the towel.

‘I was also caught in the rain.’

‘Clean it up!’

I scrambled to pick it up. He watched me all the while.

‘What should I do with it?’

‘Wash it.’

What? Luckily I didn’t say it. His eyes rested sternly on me. I’d never done my own washing. Mum always took care of it. There was a heap of dirty clothes in my room as well. For the past few days I’d watched the heap grow, wondering who would do it.

‘There’s a washing machine under the counter in the kitchen. After you’ve finished, hang the clothes inside the chalet. They’ll be dry in the morning. Tomorrow you can do the rest of your washing as well. The rain will probably clear up tonight. You can hang those clothes outside. There is a washing line.’

‘How does the machine work?’

‘Figure it out.’

I stood frozen to the spot. Figure it out?

‘What are you waiting for Buyi?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Then get a move on.’

He disappeared into his room. I stuffed my wet clothes into the washer and as I frowned down at the dials at the front, I heard Themba’s voice again. Right beside me.

‘You haven’t been going out into the camps, have you?’

I gulped. ‘No, sir … no.’

Did he know I was lying? His face was emotionless. ‘We saw that lion again today. The one with the scar. He was in the Namhlanje camp.’

‘Oh,’ was all I managed to get out as my heart started racing.

‘He got away from us again.’

‘But at least you know which camp he is in.’

‘For now. They can move up to 20 km per day. He might be somewhere else tomorrow.’

‘But the fences would stop him, wouldn’t they?’

‘They didn’t stop him before. Lwazi was attacked in the Izolo camp. The fences
linking the camps aren’t up to scratch anymore, thanks to the elephants. For now we just make sure the fences round the main camp are kept in good condition. To keep the visitors safe.’ Themba fell silent before he added, ‘Apparently this lion was seen at a small settlement a distance away.’

‘How do you know it was him?’

‘He had the same scar above his left eye.’ Themba sighed heavily, his strong shoulders drooping suddenly. ‘The people said he killed a man. If this is true, he has turned man-eater. We’ll have to get rid of him as soon as possible.’

‘Get rid of him? Catch him, you mean?’

‘We’ll have to shoot him, Buyi. But he is clever. He has already eluded us twice. Not even Lwazi could pick up his track. And he’s one of our best trackers. This scarred lion doesn’t seem to mind moving about in the rain. That’s unusual for a lion. But then again, in the game of survival nothing is unusual.’

André and Simoshile were already waiting for me at the main building.

‘Sanibona!’ I said, greeting them and showing off what little I knew of isiZulu.

‘Sawubona. Unjani?’ said Simoshile.

‘I’m doing well. What do we have planned for the day?’

André sighed. ‘Nothing.’

‘I’ve already told André I’m not falling for his sweet talk again today,’ said Simoshile.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ moaned André.

‘I’m not going to go off wandering around in any of the camps. Not even Kusasa.’

‘It’s probably a good thing,’ I said and told them about the lion who had killed somebody in a nearby village.

‘There, you see, André?’ said Simoshile. ‘All the more reason for us to stay right here where we are safe.’

‘You guys don’t have an adventurous bone in your bodies,’ he grumbled, his face gloomy. But then it suddenly lit up.

‘Oh no!’ said Simoshile. ‘I know that look. He’s got a plan again.’

‘You’re right, sister! Wait here!’

He jumped up and disappeared into the building. Moments later he returned with Mama Unahti. I smiled as I saw her beautifully coloured dress, her kind face.
She gave me a quick hug. ‘André tells me you want to go on a game drive?’

André’s eyes widened, indicating to us to just go along with it.

‘Uh, yeah,’ I stammered.

‘Mmm … I’ll see what I can do. Themba and Lwazi are taking some guests out on a game drive this morning. Just three of them. There will be place for three more.’

A game drive! That would be so cool!

André smiled, satisfied.

‘Wait here, I’ll radio them to see if it is all right.’

We waited for half an hour, and in the mean time enjoyed some strong coffee and something André called ‘beskuit’. It was pieces of baked and oven dried dough, dotted with aniseeds. He dunked his in the coffee and ate with great gusto. It seemed a bit strange to me, but when I tried it I found it
quite tasty. Slightly sweet with a liquorice aftertaste, but good.

When the tourists arrived, we tried to keep out of their way. We didn’t want to bother them, but eventually they started chatting to us, so we just went along with it.

‘My name is Moira,’ said the woman. ‘This is my husband Frank.’

‘And I’m Tom. A family friend,’ said the third one.

‘We’re from Chicago. United States of America, you know.’

But we could easily have guessed they were from America. Their loud voices and heavy accents gave them away.

André stole the show, telling them about all his exploits in the bush. I wondered if half of them weren’t just made up on the spot to impress the visitors. They seemed to enjoy it, laughing at his jokes and oo-ing and ah-ing
at regular intervals. Moira wondered aloud if she had brought along enough medicine in case ‘a wild beast goes rampant’. She ruffled through her bag, eventually standing there with what seemed like a small pharmacy in her hand.

‘Oh, put that away, Moira,’ hissed her husband.

The Land Rover arrived.

‘Good morning, good morning!’ said Themba. He introduced Lwazi and himself to the group. He seemed to be in a very good mood. Lwazi also greeted everybody, winking at us. He seemed to have recovered well after the lion attack. I was sure Mama Unahti had taken really good care of him these past couple of days.

‘Before we take you into the bush, there are a couple of things you need to be aware of. Please, it is for your own safety.’ Themba went through a whole list of dos and don’ts, his face stern, and his voice
urgent but caring. ‘Your safety lies not only in my hands, but also in your own.’

He finished his short speech with a hearty, ‘Off we go then!’ I noticed he didn’t mention anything about the man-eating lion wandering about.

‘You guys behave, all right?’ Themba whispered to me as we got into the open Land Rover. I nodded. André, Simoshile and I got into the back, with the visitors taking the seats in front of us. Themba was at the steering wheel and Lwazi sat perched on the tracker’s seat on the bonnet.

‘Buyi, do you want to sit next to Simoshile?’ asked André with a playful glint in his eye.

‘No. Why?’ I asked.

‘I’m just asking,’ he sniggered. Simoshile elbowed him in the ribs and rolled her eyes.

I saw the rifle gleaming in the front of the Land Rover. We would be safe, I said to myself as the thought of a man-eating lion crossed my mind again.

Lwazi opened the Izolo camp gate. Themba drove through, waited for Lwazi to catch up and then started up the dusty road. He told us all about the quartzite that is found in the area. Quartzite, he explained, is a type of rock formed by pressurised and heated sandstone. The iron oxide inside it gives it a distinctive white to pink appearance.

Themba moved on to the history of the area, elaborating on tin mining in the Waterberg Mountains. Apparently there were still open mining holes in the mountain, where bats lived and animals sometimes hid.

‘What’s that?’ asked Tom, pointing to a strange looking device planted in a clearing. There was a small can at the top and something that looked like a trough at the bottom. They were connected by a ribbed pole.

Themba explained: ‘That’s what we call a salt lick. The tray at the bottom is filled with thermo-phosphate, salt, maize meal and bone meal. It provides proteins and minerals for the animals.’

‘Oh, almost like taking your daily vitamins!’ said Moira.

‘Yes, almost,’ grinned Themba. ‘The strange contraption has another use as well. The animals in the bush are pestered by ticks. It would be impossible to catch and dip them all like cattle. So that little can on top contains some oil mixed with dip. It slowly trickles down that ribbed surface. And while the animals’ heads are down in the feeding tray, their necks and ears gets covered with the dip.’

‘Oh very clever!’ said Moira.

‘Did you know that?’ I asked André.

‘Of course!’ he replied.

The sun fell golden across the sandy road we were travelling on. There were tracks everywhere. I noticed Lwazi keeping his eyes fixed on these tracks. At one section of the road the leaves of the trees formed a roof overhead, bringing momentary relief from sun.

We came across a herd of impala. Themba switched off the engine. We watched in silence, and then Themba explained how these antelope have special glands, located at a tuft of black hair on the lower legs. ‘When attacked they secrete pheromones from these glands. The pungent smell lingers in the air, throwing their attackers off track. The herd re-group again later by following this scent.’

‘Impala tracks look like a primitive spear point,’ said Lwazi, turning back in his seat, ‘the tip ending in a particularly deep tread.’

With a smile Themba added. ‘We also jokingly refer to these antelope as McDonald’s.’

‘Why?’ asked Moira.

Themba must have been waiting for that question: ‘Do you see the singular black lines on either side of their behinds, and the one on their tails? It forms a MacDonald’s M.’

The tourists laughed heartily. I did too.

‘Those black lines,’ whispered André, leaning over to my side, ‘attract more heat than the white surrounding area. Ticks just love the warmth, so they gather there, and keep away from the impala’s arse and … you know what …’

‘I heard that André,’ called Themba from the front of the Land Rover.

‘Sorry sir!’

‘Is it true?’ asked Frank.

‘Indeed it is,’ said Themba.

Driving off again we marvelled as the scenery changed with every bend in the
road. Then Lwazi raised his hand. Themba stopped.

‘Come look at this,’ said Lwazi, bending down. We got out of the Land Rover. ‘You can read the story of the bush in the tracks left behind in the sand. Do you see here?’ He pointed to one of the tracks. ‘This is a blue wildebeest spoor. The hind leg. See how it almost forms a triangle with the top chopped off?’

Lwazi moved on a bit, now pointing at another set of tracks. ‘This belongs to a jackal. It is shaped like a Christmas tree. And that one there … is a serval’s tracks.’

‘How do you know if the tracks are fresh?’ asked Tom.

‘Well, it rained last night and you can see these tracks were made into the mud. But if it hasn’t been raining you can look at the edges of the track. Have they already started crumbling in? Then it is an old track. Or in the early morning you can be on the lookout for dew inside the tracks. If there is
dew in the surrounding area, but not inside the track, you know it is fresh.’

We got back into the Land Rover. Moving on we stopped to look at some waterbuck, with the distinctive white ring on their black behinds. Themba called it a toilet ring because it looked just like one was stuck to the animal. We also saw some kudu. ‘The ghosts of the bush,’ Themba called them, ‘because they are hard to find and can disappear almost in an instant.’

‘Oh look!’ cried Moira, pointing to an almost black haze darting across the road ahead, right through a fence, and scampering off. I think there were about four of them. One large animal and three smaller ones. Their tales pointing up like little antennas.

‘Warthogs!’ said Themba.

‘Oh they look so sweet – the little ones!’ cooed Moira. ‘How did they get through the fence so quickly?’

Themba drove up to the fence showing us the old, used, motor car tyres placed at regular intervals at the foot of the fence. ‘They are just big enough for the warthogs to scamper through on their knees. We sometimes find that poachers set up traps here. Or they set them in the footpaths that animals like to use.’

‘Traps?’ cried Moira.

‘What kind of traps?’ asked Frank.

‘They are usually very simple: just a long piece of wire, tied around and slipped through an eye, forming a noose. The poachers don’t care if they hurt the animals. And if they catch something that they don’t want, they just leave it there to die.’

‘Terrible!’ shrieked Moira.

We drove on and after a while reached a place called Picnic Rock. Large,
yellow-brown
boulders were stacked on top of each other, covered here and there by trees, shrubs and smaller underbrush.

Themba stopped and switched off the engine. ‘If you would follow me,’ he said like a true gentleman. ‘Mama Unahti has packed us a basket of fruit and confectionaries. We can enjoy it while taking in the splendid view from the top of the hill. But be careful, this is a favourite spot for leopards. They just love lying here, basking in the sun.’

Moira giggled nervously. She probably thought it was a joke.

‘Do you think she would be able to outrun a leopard if one came charging down the hill?’ I whispered to André.

‘No ways, she’ll be the first one he catches. At least we only need to outrun her if something happens. It’s like the relationship between the zebras and blue wildebeest that I told you about! Blue wildebeest are easy prey because of the zebra’s agility.’

I sniggered. Simoshile seemed to think we were very rude.

We made our way up the boulders, Moira heaving heavily. At least there was someone around in worse shape than me.

There were no leopards on Picnic Rock. I breathed a silent sigh of relief. Themba was right; the view from up there was incredible. He showed us where the boundaries of the resort ran. It was an enormous place. I’d never before seen so many shades of green. There were clearings intermingled with areas that looked like lumps of green clay stuck together. And everything was drenched in terrific sunlight.

Up there we could hear birds calling clearly, also the continuous buzz of cicadas. Sounds rushing in from all directions. The light breeze cooling our hot bodies. Fresh air filling our lungs.

Even the food tasted great.

‘There,’ said Simoshile, pointing to a clump of trees. ‘Giraffes.’

‘Where?’ I asked, feeling stupid for not being able to see them.

‘Near that clearing, there …’

Now I saw them. These large animals were reduced to tiny dots in the majestic landscape.

Hghou! Hghou! came a new sound a distance away.

I looked at André, questioningly. ‘Leopard!’ he said excitedly. We soon found it with the binoculars, lazing on the sundrenched boulders on a nearby hill. Its elegant head was raised slightly off the rock, surveying the surroundings. Its spotted yellow coat shone golden in the sun. The tip of its long tail whisked around gently.

As we quenched our thirst with some of Mama’s homemade fruit juice, Lwazi suddenly said the magic word. ‘Elephants!’