Lion

Dusk in the bush. The air is cooling as the sun sets. The golden grass has a shimmer of orange from the sun. We drive slowly scanning, looking, hoping to catch a glimpse of a predator. This is the best time to be on safari, dusk. The air is quiet and we watch, hoping for movement. I lean back in the vehicle, appreciating the silence, the smells, the air against my face. Alive. 

We turn a corner on a dirt path and see a pride of lions. They sit on the path, watching, lounging. There are eight of them, including a large female and some young males. We park the vehicle, engine off and watch. A dove calls--the classic sound of African. The young male lions get up, poke around in the tall grass and return to the road. The grass is so high, that the lions come back to the road for easier hunting. We watch the female, a gorgeous lion, strong, tawny in color. It's the paws and the eyes of the lion that always amaze me, paws enormous and eyes a piercing yellow. 

The young males move into the bush, we pay no notice enjoying the view of the female. Suddenly, the female stands up and looks sharply to the trees, where the males have gone. She is intensely focused. Her muscles tense and bulging, an incredible creature. She moves slowly towards the trees. Stops. Then suddenly she starts running away from the trees, the opposite direction from where the males went. Immediately thereafter, the bush explodes with dust, hooves, noise, movement, wildebeest, running like rockets through the trees being chased by the young male lions who are focused and fast. A flurry of activity. 

With perfection they chase one of the wildebeest precisely towards the crouched and waiting female lion who nails the wildebeest instantly, pouncing out of the grass in total surprise to the wildebeest. All the lions circle and pounce on the wildebeest. More wildebeest run by and the female leaves the one she has just taken down and starts running after the others. Some of the lions chase after her, while the other lions wait with the maimed wildebeest, paws pressed on it, assuring it will not get away, while watching the other chase. Some of the males return to the wildebeest, five of them on the animal, trying to kill it. With each breath the  wildebeest lets out a cry that sounds like a failing horn. It's a cry I have heard before at the great wildebeest migration crossing in Kenya. There, dozens of wildebeest crying as they try to cross the river without getting killed by crocs. Here the wildebeest cries as the lions try to kill her. It's a good couple of minutes and agonizing hearing the crying wildebeest and watching his legs flail in the air. The young male lions chew on him, paw at him, but do not kill him. 

The female returns from her other chase, cuts right through the males and bites the neck of the wildebeest, eventually ending his life. After that we watch in the dim light as the lions feast on the wildebeest. Tearing through the skin with their sharp teeth, licking the blood and devouring the meat. The sound of lions eating in inexplicable, growls, grunts and roars. Nudging each other out of the way to get a better angle, its an awesome sight. We leave them to their evening meal and make our way back in the dark to the lodge in awe. 

How the pride orchestrated the kill, perfectly funneling the prey to the female, without, at least to our knowledge, any communication, is mind boggling. An awesome glimpse into the intricacies of the natural world. We were incredibly lucky to see the kill, despite the images of Disney channel and National Geographic, seeing a kill is rare. It's a brutal, yet awesome cycle of life.

Mountain Gorilla. Awe.

I had the privilege of trekking mountain gorilla in Volcanoes National Park in Rwanda recently. No words are needed, except these are awesome mammals. Like all apes in Africa (that is not a typo--all apes), the mountain gorilla is endangered. They live in Uganda, Rwanda and the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC). With conflict in DRC, Rwanda and Uganda are relatively safe havens. There are approximately 880 mountain gorillas left in the entire world. Two were born while I was there. Hope. 

(Click on the photo to make it bigger.) 

Silverback

 

 Baby Gorilla Swinging and Having a Ball

Silverback with three babes

Laughing Babe

Pig-pile on the silverback 

Rhino

There is a Rhinometer in the local newspaper. It tracks the number of rhinos killed. It is the kind of thermometer you see when people are fundraising, where you want the red to reach the top, signifying your fundraising target. Yet with the Rhinometer the red symbolizes the blood of rhinos, you pray it does not keep rising. We are in Kwa Zulu Natal. On Monday the meter indicates 54 rhinos killed in the Province and by Friday it reads 60. Despite the noble efforts of scouts, agencies, concerned citizens, and conservation groups, the slaughter continues. Each day we hear of one, two killed. One every 13 hours in South Africa. A guard sits on a rock, holds his head in his hands, distraught. These are the brave men putting their lives on the line to protect these mighty mammals. Another day we hear from the head of security, 'We just got another report, one is shot, still alive, she has a baby with her.' These are the realities in the bush. Leakage points have been identified at the Mozambican border. They move in quickly, well trained, one shot, horn hacked, boiled to dissolve the micro-chip and they go back across the border. Done. In 2005 South Africa lost 14 rhinos. Last year 668 were poached, these are only the known deaths. This year the projections put poaching at over 1,000, a horrific number. On our drive out of a reserve we see two rhinos peacefully grazing. These enormous, prehistoric creatures have thrived for centuries. We watch as they eat, in silence. A rhino was poached that morning in the same reserve. Watching these rhinos now feels different, sacred. None of us speak, but we are all thinking about the same thing, their future, their survival. 

Total Disarray

My Kenyan colleague continues to nod his head and say 'total disarray.' We are in Juba airport, the capital city of the newly independent South Sudan.

An exacerbated man makes his way through the front door (which is quite a feat within itself), scans the masses in this dim room, catches my eye and says 'how does this work?' I reply simply with a smile 'it doesn't.'

Floods of people are outside the airport, loitering, selling, chatting, working, some traveling. You enter the airport through a narrow door. In a situation like this I just plow my way through—no eye contact, just move. A man wearing ray bans, a camouflage uniform holds his arm out, says to me 'where is your ticket?' E ticket I say. You have to have a bit of an attitude or they will identify you as a rookie, and you are stuffed.

My colleague from the Ministry pulls me through the door.

The airport is one big room, no lights, well, one here and there, and it is packed, no signs. Now, when I say packed, I mean packed, wall to wall people trying to get tickets, visas, baggage checked, stamps, approvals—chaos. I am grateful it rained the night before because the air is cooler. The heat is severe in Juba, you just sweat.

Everyone is taller than I, so I am seeing coats, shirts, and jackets. I see a man whose head is above the crowd, one would think he is on a table, but no, he is one of the tall, lanky South Sudanese. They are known for their height.

Remember the game you played as a kid, peanut butter and jelly sandwich, where two of you would squish someone in the middle, well, that’s what the airport is like, an adult version. In these situations, you just roll with it, otherwise you will not move. So my elbows come out, shoulder leaning into people to make my way through and I wheel my suitcase like a lawn mower over people's toes and shoes without any thought or concern.

I am aware of my briefcase, filled with laptop, IPad, blackberry, wallet, and passport. I guard it. I could be fleeced of anything in here, I would not even notice if someone took my pants off, that is how sandwiched we are.

We make our way to the Kenya Airway counter, a dirty cinder block slab. I shove my way to the front. A tall man wearing a white boubou (Islamic dress) tries to nudge me out of the way, no way I think. I push my back against him, holding my firm place at the counter.

We check in, and then go to the passport line. The man behind the counter is shielded by glass that has a small window. It is utterly impressive how many arms, hands, passports, cash are making their way at once through the window. He sits back, sipping a soda, and slowly processes the visas.

My colleague does not have his yellow fever certificate. They tell him he must get a shot. He says ‘No Way, I'd rather stay here.’ Discussions, money changes hand, a certificate, no shot, we make our way to the line to enter the gate.

The line to enter the gate is no different. You know when you play the game of human dominoes; press everyone against each other in a line and then all sit down, and you are on each others' knees...that's this line. Absolutely no personal space whatsoever. The man behind me is a young South Sudanese. His elbows are in my back, his bag pressed against my knees. He is tall, dark. He wears a nice black suit, fresh, crisp white button-down shirt. His forehead tells me he is from the Dinka tribe. He has five impeccable thin lines, scars, across his entire forehead. Incredible scars which signify where you are from.

The line into the gate has turned into anarchy. The man working at the entrance waves me over in a firm manner, I am in the wrong line, I should be in the ladies line. I stand, wait. My colleague from the Ministry continues to hold my arm; it is a very common gesture here and throughout Africa. It's a sign of friendship, care. It is common to see people holding hands, men. Friends. When you meet someone, you do not shake and let go, you continue to hold hands as you greet each other.

South Sudan suffers from a number of things—poverty, war, conflict and what we call the Big Man Syndrome. You see it in the cars they drive, the people that they have supporting them. Here in the airport we see it in the line. They head right to the door waving their way through.

The man at the door now pauses both lines. Nobody is moving into the gate area, nobody moving out. You can picture him thinking ‘Now, all of you, reflect on my power.’ It’s fantastic. You just have to smile and drink in the whole situation.

South Sudan is the youngest country in Africa. Newly independent after decades of war, the worst in Africa and that says a lot. In South Sudan 50% of the population is under the age of 20. 80% illiteracy rate. Combine that with very easy access to weapons, and you have a lethal cocktail. This was the strategy of the North, oppress the masses, don't educate them and they will stay underneath you. Well, after decades of war, they are now independent.

When you land in Juba you notice the runway filled with UN, WFP (World Food Program), Red Cross and other humanitarian aid planes. Juba, the capital of S. Sudan, has approximately 1.3 million people, but this is an estimate—nobody really knows. It sits on the Nile, and yet there is no electricity, no running water. The Nile is lined with diesel generators pumping waters into trucks to service the city.

We are working with the government to help them develop policies, processes and frameworks that will ensure the country can develop in a way that protects their natural resources (water, forests, wildlife, parks) while simultaneously fostering a diverse and robust economy. It’s a country with enormous potential which we hope to help them fulfill.

Tracking Leopards. Panthera pardus.

We are in Kruger National Park. It is 40 degrees Fahrenheit--Hot. We are sweating. The sun is relentless, unforgiving. But the lure of spotting a leopard on foot makes me forget the heat. The organization I work for has a leopard researcher in the Park. He is monitoring their movement patterns and behaviours so that park we can design conservation programs strategically. He has put radio collars on four of them. This way, with telemetry equipment, he can follow them and know their movements and whereabouts. We meet at the gate a 6 am. He indicates that the leopard has been in one place for over 24 hours, he suspects the leopard has a kill. He asks if we are keen on checking? Absolutely we say. 

We pick up a guard from the protected areas staff quarters. He is an elderly gentleman, wearing a khaki uniform and hat. His socks are tucked into his pants to keep out the insects and protect his skin. He is wearing thick, heavy black boots. I break a sweat just looking at his feet. He speaks no English, just his native language, and carries a big rifle. He sits in the front of the truck with the researcher, and four of us cram into the back of the truck. Now, it’s hot just sitting, so imagine how hot it is crammed four in the back of a truck.

We turn onto a ‘do not enter’ sign road. As a researcher, he is allowed to go wherever he needs to complete his work. We drive through vast grasslands passing impala, elephant, wildebeest....the usual. We do not stop for this wildlife; we are focused on the big cat. We stop near a river bank, the researcher pulls out the telemetry gear, gets himself on the roof of the truck and listens for the beep. The beep indicates the leopard, the louder and faster the beep is, the closer you are. He listens. We listen and watch, while trying to fetch any shade. He decides we should drive a bit further, as the road will get us closer to where we need to go in on foot.

We park the vehicle. The researcher reminds us of the rules for walking in the bush ‘walk single file, do not talk, stay alert, and look for any instructions from the guard.’ ‘The worst thing you can do if something happens is run, so hold your ground.’ Wide-eyed we all listen, watch and agree. In single file we follow the researcher and the guard. The researcher holds the telemetry equipment forward, waving it in different directions and following the beep. The air is thick. I am in a full sweat.

We enter a sandy river bed. The sand is deep making walking even more slow. The bush along the edge is thick. Pointing to a very thick area of vegetation, the researcher says she might be in there. He reminds us that leopards are very dangerous. We are completely exposed; she could be anywhere, let alone the other wildlife that could take us down in a snap. I edge myself closer to the ranger with the gun. Standing in the riverbank, the beep moves, she moves, we follow, quietly, following the elusive beeps. The researcher moves up the left river bank and I can hear the beeping get louder, faster. The researcher turns and says ‘stay with the gun.’ OK, I think, that is an instruction I will follow, scooting right up to the ranger again.

We break through the bush to a more open area, grasslands with shrubs and trees, and all of a sudden the corner of my eye catches movement ‘there she is’ I yell. Indeed, the leopard. Running, a comfortable distance away from us, we get one more look, and then she is gone. Fast. Eyes wide open with massive grins we all breath a sigh of delight, ‘wow, we saw her.’

The researcher says ‘let’s find out where she has been hanging out.’ We follow him and look around. We get a little spread out and again, he reminds us that leopards are dangerous and we need to stick together, like ducks in a row, we obey. Soon enough we are standing below a large tree, look up, and there in the fork of the tree is a bloody, adult impala draped over the tree limbs, her kill. Leopards drag their kills up a tree for safe keeping and sure enough, this one was safe up there. The limp body dangled over the tree like a doll, and yet, a male impala can weigh up to 80kgs, a hefty mass to drag up a tree. The leopard we were tracking is a female, they weigh up to 35 kgs, so imagine dragging half your weight up a tree, with your teeth, not an easy feat.

What is it that amazes us about leopard or cats in general? For me, it is their awesome beauty. The coat on a leopard is absolutely exquisite. The detailed pattern stretched out over their muscular body is awe-inspiring. Watching them and knowing their strength and abilities makes you pause. Their yellow eyes bordered by black eye-lids are mesmerizing.

Like all large cats in Africa, the leopard is on the Red List of Threatened Species. Their trend: Declining. They are almost extinct in N. Africa. Its advantage is that they are adaptable and somewhat elusive, but this also makes them very difficult to monitor.

As we head home that evening, despite only seeing a passing glint of the leopard, we are thrilled with our sighting. The adventure of walking in the bush, tracking one of Africa’s greatest cats is not something one gets to do every day, nor is it something one forgets.

Normal

According to the dictionary normal means ‘conforming to the standard or the common type; usual; not abnormal; regular; natural.’ Regular, natural, normal.

I am struck daily as to what has become normal to me. Things that would make other people’s eyes pop out in shock, no longer phase me. A woman carrying a box of eggs on her head. Normal. A man dodging traffic on a bike that looks like it is taped together. Normal. Driving on the sidewalk. Normal. An election where the lead candidate is wanted by the International Criminal Court. Normal. Four people on a motor bike and a duck. Normal. Fifty live chickens strapped on top of a bus. Normal.

I am stuck in Samburu. Sitting under an acacia tree with five Samburu women. I am on my way to Nanyuki, a little town on the edge of Mt. Kenya. The planes here are like buses, we stop at an airstrip, drop people, then move to the next. We stopped at the first airstrip and were delayed taking off because giraffe were on the runway. Normal. We land in Samburu, a hot, dry area, scattered with scrub and acacia trees, home to the Samburu people. We drop some tourists, pick some others up, and the plane will not start. The young pilots are looking at the manual and I am thinking ‘this is not good.’ After a few phone calls, flipping of the manual, they confirm that we cannot take off. They say an emergency plane will come from Nairobi. ‘Yeah right’ I think, ‘we’ll be spending the better part of the day in Samburu.’ Normal.

I grab a bottle of water, my binos, a book and find a rock to sit on next to the Samburu ladies under an acacia tree. There is not a human structure in sight. We are literally in the middle of nowhere. Normal. This does not strike me as odd in any way. The women are decorated in incredible coloured beads, the youngest girl’s neck is completely covered with stacks of large beaded necklaces the size of records. Normal. They are here by the airstrip trying to sell jewellery and carvings to tourists leaving and arriving. There is probably a max of two flights a day given it is high tourist season. They were packed up and ready to go when we were trying to take off, but now, they are back under the tree, just sitting, watching. Their homes are far, they walk a distance to sell a bracelet or two. They have woven satchels that are made of recycled plastic within which they carry their goods. The eldest lady who is lying sideways as if she is modelling a bikini in a swim wear photo shoot, gets up, stretches the bag on the ground and offers me a seat.

It is hot. About 90 degrees. The shade is lovely and the penetrating silence delicious. I have not sat quietly like this for some time. I have been moving—Joburg, Nairobi, Arusha, Addis. I am soaking in the silence. One Samburu girl starts singing quietly. People pay money to hear songs like hers but here we are, under the tree. They are not pushing their jewellery at all. In fact they have not even dumped them out of their bags. We are their entertainment. They wait to see what happens.

A plane arrives. Landing from the east. One of the passengers with us has to catch a 3.30 flight out of Nairobi, so we all grab our bags and run to the plane. I have a zillion beaded bracelets, but I want to buy something from the elderly women who gave me her seat. She has a silver bracelet on her arm. I ask for the same. She offers me the one on her arm, I insist no. She reaches into her bag and pulls one out. It is basically tin, but it is a week’s meal for her family. I buy one from her and one from the young girl, 300 Kenya Shillings, less than four dollars. Kwaheri (goodbye) and I run to the plane. The engine starts. Meanwhile the mechanic is at the old plane with the two pilots. As our engine starts, we look over and he is telling us to cut the engine by motioning his hand across his throat. Oh boy, now what?  Once the engine is off, the mechanic comes over; he has fixed the old plane. Yup. Classic. Those going to Nanyuki run to the old plane, those to Nairobi stay on the new plane.

The Samburu ladies still sitting under the tree watch as we run back and forth between planes with our bags, cracking a sweat. Silly Mazungus (white people) they must be thinking. But all of this is normal, standard; regular; natural.

Normal I suppose is just what you are used to. I am driving in Nairobi last week. A matatu (the mini-vans that provide public transport) is in front of me. He starts rolling backwards on the hill towards me. A couple guys jump out of the vehicle, yes, while it’s moving. I now can’t see what is happening because the exhaust spewing out of his tail pipe is as black as the night and has encompassed my entire windshield. They pull rocks out, put them behind the tires, it rolls right over them. The vehicle is now sideways on the road. Meanwhile, life continues, cars go by and soon enough I am driving on the sidewalk, around the matatu, and carry on as if nothing has happened. Normal.

How far does one have to go to not adjust and find things abnormal?

 Riding a camel. Normal. 

Rules

The rules here are what always get me. For example, a red light in Kenya is simply a suggestion. Sometimes rules are enforced, sometimes not. That is the gamble. It can frustrate or free you. Use them when it works for you, bend it when it does not. That is what creates the chaos we have gotten so used to and participate in. I will be first to admit, after a long-day at work, if there is a jam, and the sidewalk has open space, I will gladly utilize that open lane.

It is 4.30 am in Kampala, Uganda. I am catching a plane to South Africa, the only one of the day. Traffic in Kampala is a nightmare. There is one road in and out of Kampala. No ring–roads and really no space to manuveur a-la Nairobi style—side walk driving, making one lane three lanes etc... If you get stuck in Kampala traffic, you are stuck! A friend of mine got stuck once and he jumped into a tuk-tuk—the three wheel rickshaws, and drove the 60 kms to the airport!

Anyhow, on this dark morning I leave early to avoid traffic. It’s a gamble, drive in the dark or get stuck in traffic. Kampala’s roads are ok and we make it fine to the airport. At the check-in counter the attendant says “I am sorry, but we cannot check you in....” “Umm, and why is that?” “Your yellow fever certificate has expired.” (Rules. Here is a rule that is sometimes enforced, sometimes not. In Congo they enforce it to get bribes, but I have never had an issue with my yellow fever certificate. OK, I will confess, I knew it was expired, but who has time to go to the doctor.) Now, another lesson I have learned here is you just talk them into things. For example, “Miss, your bag is too heavy for the plane.” “Oh, but that is OK.” – and there it is, she checks it in. So, here I go into talk – mode “Oh, but that is no problem, you see, once it is expires you have 30 days to renew it, and I have a Dr.’s appointment tomorrow.” (All of that completely untrue.) She does not buy it.

Crap, now I am concerned. Remaining completely calm I ask her what she thinks I should do. “Well, there is a clinic down the road, you can go get a shot there.” Ha! It is dark, I am an hour outside the capital, Uganda has an HIV problem, oh right, and they just had an Ebola outbreak, but I will just skip on down to the clinic. Fat chance. Rules. I ask for the supervisor, and long-story short, some sweet talking, and I get on the plane. I ‘adjust’ the documents on the plane. Arrive in South Africa. Distract the customs officer with trite conversation and I am in. Rules. Bend them. Use them. Abide by them....when you can.