Predators I Have Known (15 page)

As it developed, the last half of that description fit our accommodations perfectly.

Bill had told us prior to our arrival that Tarangire, being less developed as well as less famous than the Serengeti or Ngorongoro, was a tented camp. Exactly what this meant was not spelled out. I’m not sure Bill knew all the details himself. But we quickly learned them. There were twelve big tents, arranged in a straight line facing distant hills.

Ours was large if not spacious, with a ceiling high enough to allow us to move around inside without having to bend. Furnishings consisted of a small table on which was placed a pitcher of (hopefully) boiled water and a glass (that had hopefully been cleaned in boiling water). There was a small camp chair and, aligned on opposite sides of the tent and about six feet from each other, two individual cots with bedding. A kerosene lantern hung from the tent’s apex. The dull green canvas walls reflected a lack of maintenance sufficient to suggest that nothing like a preservative or cleaning compound had come in contact with the aged material since the British had abandoned East Africa to the locals back in the 1950s. In places, the primitive, heavy fabric was torn or peeling. Out the tent’s back entrance was a portable toilet that was open to the sky and enclosed on three sides by wooden slats.

My wife, who is less than fond of camping, surveyed our other-than-five-star accommodations.

“It’ll be all right,” I told her. “It’s only for two nights.”

She nodded . . . dubiously.

Given the option of staying in any of the vacant tents, Bill and Sally had understandably chosen one several sites away from ours. As we settled in for the night, the temperature remained pleasant while the air retained the freshness of the day but without the exacerbating heat. Having turned out the lantern, I used my small flashlight to find my cot and slip beneath the more-or-less clean blanket and single sheet.

“Good night, hon.”

“Good night,” she replied tiredly.

Some two minutes later, a sound reverberated through the tent’s interior. It was a long, low baying, the kind a vigorous steer might make after undertaking six months’ opera training in Milan. A single extended bellow followed by a series of shorter coughs. It wasn’t unimpressive.

Nor did it escape JoAnn’s notice. Any hint of the fatigue incurred as a consequence of the day’s long drive vanished from her voice.

“What was that?”

I did my best to sound blasé. “The lions.”

Her response emphasized each word carefully. “
What
‘lions’?”

“Just ‘the lions,’” I replied diffidently. I tried to will myself instantly to sleep. It did not work.

I could hear her moving around and sitting up on the other cot. “There are lions here? How close are they?” As if responding to a cue card, another of the large unseen felines promptly embarked upon an imposing extended bawl. As soon as he or she stopped, the cry was taken up by another, and then another. The bellowing was now coming from multiple directions and no doubt from different prides. From a traditional choral standpoint their liturgy was limited, but no less impressive for the lack of Latin.

“Not too close,” I offered, more out of hope than knowledge.

JoAnn bought that about as much as she accepted that I had suddenly become fluent in Swahili. “How do
you
know? How can you tell? How
close
are they?”

I tried another tack. “We’re fine. They won’t bother us in here.”

Her flashlight winked on. A bad sign. She played it over the interior walls of the tent, pausing briefly to isolate a gigantic Jerusalem cricket that was ascending the back wall. “What do you mean, ‘we’re fine’? Don’t you see this canvas? It’s all rotten! A lion could get in here with one swipe!”

“Maybe one could,” I argued weakly, “but they won’t.”

“Oh no? How do
you
know that?”

“I just,” I sputtered, “I mean, they
don’t
, that’s all.” All else having failed, I fell to resorting to logic. “If they did, nobody would rent these tents.”

“That’s not a good enough reason.” The light moved, and I felt her presence against me. “Move over. I’m sleeping with you tonight.”

I tried to make room and quickly found myself lying across the cot’s less than forgiving outside support pole. It was patently obvious that it was not the intention of the cot’s designers that someone should sleep half in and half out of their product. I so informed JoAnn.

“Neither one of us will get any sleep this way,” I pleaded.

“Fine! Then neither one of us will get any sleep. You’re on the outside. If they come through that wall, they’ll eat you first.”

And thus was established our routine for the rest of the night. Every time exhaustion grew so complete and overwhelming that I thought I might actually drift off to sleep, another lion would verbally assail the moon, or call to a mate, or exercise its lungs just for the leonine hell of it. Whereupon a freshly wide-awake JoAnn would give me a sharp nudge and declare insistently, “That was close, wasn’t it? How close was that?”

Four new
bomas
were under construction at the campsite—meaning they had not been touched in weeks. Thus far, each consisted of four walls fashioned of rough concrete blocks, a bare concrete floor, a couple of windows, a front door, and a metal roof. The second night at Tarangire that was where we slept—on the floor. And the most delicious part of our visit?

In all the time we spent roaming Tarangire, we did not see a single lion.

* * *

Mount Etjo, Namibia, October 1993

FELIX THE CHEETAH WAS THE
only semi-wild animal at Mount Etjo, but he was far from the only big cat. The extensive Okonjati Wildlife Sanctuary was home to caracal, leopard, and, of course, lion. To ensure that visitors had the opportunity to see lions feeding, from time to time, a haunch of antelope or whatever meat was available would be set out. Such a procedure is not uncommon at private game reserves. What makes it special at Okonjati is that the feeding is done at night, when big predators tend to be more active, and that viewing is done not from the safety of a big Land Rover or Unimog, but from ground level.

Below ground level, actually.

A long approach ditch had been dug and covered with cut brush, and at the end of it is a transverse ditch like the cap of the letter “T,” which has also been covered and camouflaged. I’d seen such blinds before, but they had been built to allow quiet viewing of birds or herbivores. Not nocturnally feeding lions. When the setup was being explained to the visitors at the lodge, one gentleman from Germany raised a hand to inquire, reasonably, as to what was there to keep the lions from adding observing humans to the evening menu.

“They have the meat that’s been set out for them,” the guide explained. “Also, there’s an electrically charged wire running in front of the blind.”

“One wire?” the German gentleman asked.

The guide nodded. “One’s enough. They know not to try and cross it.”

To me this sounded not unlike the other guide’s remark about not knowing cheetahs didn’t like to be scratched between their front legs.

“Nobody’s been attacked while watching the feed,” the guide added. Seeing that some of the visitors were wavering, he did not add “yet.”

It was very dark. Little moonlight. Those of us who decided to go were bussed out into the bush and then escorted down the trench that had been dug to provide access to the main blind. No one asked if there was anything to prevent a curious lion from entering via the same artificial gully.

Once at the blind, we spread out. A couple of spotlights illuminated a chunk of dead meat from which protruded a single leg. In the reduced light, I couldn’t tell what ungulate it was from, but it was considerably bigger than an impala. The smell emanating from the carcass was profound.

We didn’t have to wait long.

Huffing and growling, the pride came in at a quick jog. If they sensed our presence they gave no sign of it. Their attention was concentrated wholly on food that wasn’t going to run away. Females began to rip off big pieces of flesh and carry them off into the darkness beyond the reach of the spotlights while adolescents hung around the fringe waiting for a chance at the carcass. Then the males arrived. Awkwardly, from the perspective of the lionesses, there were two of them, and they both promptly laid claim to the biggest hunk of meat. One on each side, both dug in with teeth and claws. Neither was willing to give way. Back and forth, they wrestled, pushed, shoved, ignoring the staring humans in the ditch as each sought to assert its dominance over the other.

The problem was that in their single-minded attempt to gain control of the free meal, they kept edging closer and closer to the blind.

I didn’t know how much voltage was flowing through the single wire that was both our defensive moat and palisade. But, at that moment, it looked about as effective as a cable downloading music to an iPod. One of the Italians nervously asked the guard if maybe we should call it a night. The guide shook his head no and put a finger to his lips.

Whether it was the presence of the electrified wire or simply fatigue, the two males halted inches from the inadequate barrier. Neither had relinquished his grip on the meat. They were, I estimated, no more than six or seven feet away. I could have stretched out flat on the ground, stuck a hand beneath the wire, and made contact with my toes still hanging over the edge of the ditch. It was plain they weren’t at all interested in us, however. What rendered the situation intimidating was not so much their proximity as the fact that crouching in the blind we were at eye level with them. Seeing a lion at eye level is very different from observing one from the back of a truck or other 4x4. Their mass becomes overwhelming, the definition in the straining muscles awe-inspiring.

Having settled into their tug-of-war, both males had gone comparatively quiet as well as motionless. We began to relax a little. It was plain that sooner or later one male would take control of the meat and walk off into the night with it, just as the females had done earlier. I found myself blinking. It had been a long, hot day. After witnessing the feeding, it would be good to get back to the room, lie down, and relax. Except for a few insects, there was little noise now and . . .

The lions exploded.

I don’t know how else to describe it. For nearly ten minutes, they had been staring at each other, their faces a couple of feet apart, virtually silent as each strained to take control of the evening meal from his brother when, without warning, they erupted in a sequence of roars, slaps, and violent contortions that were powerful enough to, as the learned sages used to say, freeze the blood.

As quickly as the eruption had taken place, it quieted.

One of the women had started to scream, and it had caught in her throat—a sound nearly as extraordinary as the one made by the two lions. Everyone, including me, had momentarily jerked slightly backward. Time, existence, the air . . . had for an instant been stopped. Then the lion brothers resumed their silent contest of strength and will, and a number of human bodies resumed their normal patterns of respiration. It was one of the most extraordinary couple of seconds I have ever experienced, vastly heightened by the fact that it occurred only a few feet in front of me.

Ever since, I have not been able to look at a lion, no matter how quiescent, or sleepy, or indifferent, or far away behind moat or bars in a zoo, in the same way again.

Prescott, Arizona, Anytime

FRIENDS I MAKE IN REMOTE
locales overseas or meet on the trail are wont to assume that the carnivores with whom I have encounters are only to be found in the exotic far-flung corners of the earth: in the searing deserts of Africa and the steaming jungles of Asia, South America, and India. They are wrong. My home state of Arizona is full of hungry predators, some of whom are not even connected with the chief political parties. A sampling of such creatures can even be found in the primary urban areas of Phoenix and Tucson.

Though it continues to grow by demographic leaps and geriatric bounds (Prescott is always rated one of the best places in the United States to retire), the town where I live is still in many aspects quite rural. Much of this is due to the fact that on two sides the city limits back up against protected national forest. While the chances of having a black bear stumble into town, as used to happen every once in a while years ago, is now greatly reduced, the occasional curious cougar still pads its stealthy way into the outer fringes of development, no doubt hoping to chance upon a plump poodle or overly emboldened Chihuahua that has unadvisedly wandered away from its cosseted home base.

A live creek runs through our property, and while we have yet to encounter a cougar, the permanent water source draws a considerable variety of wildlife to its easily accessible banks. Predator-wise, I’ve seen both bobcats and foxes on our property. Nothing clears the sleep from your eyes immediately upon climbing out of bed than opening your curtains to find a fox glaring directly back at you, furious that your actions have startled the ground squirrel it has been patiently stalking among the rocks.