Whatever You Do, Don't Run Page 5
“So,” Hayden asked us as we moved into the darkness. “Do you think she likes me?”
Pets
Attie gave Yolanda a baby squirrel.
He claimed to have found it lying at the base of a tree, but we all suspected that he had stolen it from a nest.
Grant, Yolanda’s husband, wasn’t happy.
“Bloody Attie! You know what’s going to happen, don’t you?” he asked me. “She’ll get attached to it, then something will kill it, and I’ll be left to pick up the pieces.”
“And if the Wildlife Department pays a visit and sees your wife with a pet squirrel, they’ll arrest her,” I added, just to cheer him up. It is illegal to have any animal in a national park. Even if Attie had found the squirrel lying naked and helpless at the foot of a tree, the law said he had to leave it there for the jackals to deal with.
Every single one of us at Mombo worked in the bush because we loved animals, and most of us missed the pets we’d had as children. So illegal or not, we couldn’t just leave the baby to die. We kept the squirrel and named him Chap.
Prior to Chap’s arrival, the closest thing to pets we had were a family of warthogs that spent most of their day in the camp. They were moderately tolerant of people walking close by, giving a gruff snort if you stepped too close to their grazing. They showed no affection to us, which is probably because we strictly adhered to the commonsense rule of not feeding wild animals.
There were other animals that had territories that included the camp and surrounds, and these would often allow close approaches without ever being anything like tame. The most relaxed were a small herd of kudu (a type of antelope), a baboon troop that visited every few days, a huge monitor lizard and a group of naughty monkeys that came into the camp every day.
The monkeys were a problem. Unlike the warthogs, which seemed content with their lot and were unwilling to launch raids against the bounty held in our storerooms, the monkeys were constantly plotting and scheming ways of getting to our food. In the afternoon just before the game drive, guards would be posted around the afternoon tea as it was being set up to protect against the furry bandits. The monkeys learned distraction techniques and would have dummy runners scoot by to draw the attention of any watchers, as another shimmied down a tree to make off with whatever muffins or cakes might be set out. They even learned how to unzip tents, and took great delight in strewing the contents of unwary tourists’ luggage around the bush, festooning the thorn trees with underwear like it was an early Christmas. They also had a sideline interest in shiny objects, which could keep them entertained for hours. People would often have the startling experience of going into their bathrooms only to find a monkey on the basin, admiring its reflection in the mirror.
The various managers who handled the food and beverages at Mombo Camp always ended up hating monkeys because of their theft. I also had a battle with them, but it was for a different reason.
Sleep is a sacred commodity to a safari guide. I started work at five o’clock in the morning and was on duty until after brunch at around eleven o’clock. In between then and three o’clock, I might have as many as three forty-minute round trips to the airstrip, and if I sat with the guests for dinner, my evening could run as late as midnight. This was the routine for seven days a week, three months straight. From about the midway point of any three-month stint in the bush I would be exhausted. And on the rare days that I had no guests to pick up or drop off at the airstrip, I would rush to my baking hot tent, soak a bedsheet, lie underneath its cool moisture, and try to doze for an hour or so. The monkeys seemed to want me awake, though, and took great delight in climbing the tree nearest to my abode and launching themselves at its taut canvas roof.
My “house” was just four poles stuck in the ground, with canvas wrapped around it and zippers front and back. One side was higher than the other, and the roof was yet another swathe of canvas that sloped down to allow runoff in the rainy season. To the monkeys’ great delight, all that tight material had created an enormous drum, and they had a knack of landing on it just as I had reached a relaxed enough state to have a little drool going. The thud would be accompanied by a drum roll that would make a sergeant major proud, as four feet would scamper back to the edge of the roof, only to leap across to the nearest tree, climb it, and repeat the process.
If I rushed out of my house to bellow at them, I would gain no satisfaction, just a number of furry, grey-fringed faces that seemed to be laughing at me. Some would even call out “Kwo! Kwo!” as if to show how funny they thought I was, or maybe to point out the silver trail on my chin. As soon as I went back inside, they would start bouncing on the roof again. “Boom! Ga-doom, ga-doom, ga-doom, ga-doom,” went the sound, and there was no way I could convince myself it was a lullaby.
Staggering out of my tent one day, bleary-eyed, bitter mouthed, and frustrated to the point of tears at the antics of the Botswana Trampoline Team (as I had come to think of them), I picked up a stick and threw it at one of them. It missed, but one of them said “Kwe!” I froze. He hadn’t said, “Kwo!”
This was important.
I understand a little bit of monkey language, and “kwe” is a sound I listened for. It was an alarm. If I heard it on a drive, I would hone in its origin, see in which direction the monkeys were looking, and locate whatever predator it was that was disturbing them. If they were mildly panicked, it was usually only a snake; larger panic was for a lion or cheetah. Full-blown conniptions were reserved for leopards, because they could climb trees. The stick I had thrown had been briefly misinterpreted by one of the monkeys as a snake, and it gave me an idea.
“I need to borrow this,” I said to Yolanda, who was sitting in the office that adjoined the rather tacky little curio collection we sold to supplement the camp’s income. I was clutching a fluffy toy and grabbed a small scarf as an afterthought. “And this,” I added and ran out, probably confirming Yolanda’s opinion that I had spent a bit too much time in the sun without a head covering.
I ran back to my house, where the monkeys were in full swing. They scampered into the branches at my approach, but didn’t move too far away from their game. They just sat bobbing and swaying, adding an occasional “Kwo!” which I was convinced was laughter.
“Kwo yourself,” I said, and from under the scarf whipped out the toy—a rather poor representation of a leopard, but it was enough to put the heebie-jeebies into the monkeys. They went berserk. “Kwe! Kwe kwe kwe kwe kwe! Kwe!” The whole troop had now moved away a few trees, but still watched the predator I held in my hand. I tossed it from side to side, and the pitch of their calls went up an octave. I was amazed at their gullibility, but took great pleasure in it and derived even more at their reaction when I threw the toy in the air. The whole troop called “Kwe!” in unison; one even fell off his branch. Then they fled, yelling a chorus of “Kwekwekwekwe!” as they went, and I imagined they were saying, “Holy crap! Did you see that? A flying leopard!”
I paid for the toy, and left it outside my room wedged into a tree branch whenever I had the opportunity for a nap. And every afternoon I made a point of bringing it back into my room, mindful that the bigger, stronger, smarter baboons would rip it apart if they came through the camp, as they had already done to numerous hats and shoes that I had left outside to air.
At night the warthogs, monkeys and baboons all slept, and we faced new animals that lived with us but also weren’t quite pets. The most innocuous were two porcupines that snuffled around, picking up whatever vegetable matter they could and giving us the occasional fright when we had mistaken them for a bush.
Then there were the hyenas. They would appear soon after dusk, slinking around the fringes of the camp and growing bolder as darkness increased. Finally, when backs were turned, they would make a dash for the kitchen or any unattended plate of food. The guests ate up on a raised deck, but the guides and managers sat at ground level on their nights off, and we often lost our dinners by going to the bar for a drink refill.
Impossible, that is, until he eats the closest thing to a real pet that you have. The staff managed to feel animosity toward him when two weeks after Chap the squirrel came into our lives, the genet ate him.
So we went back to having only the genet and warthogs as “pets,” and eventually forgave the former for his natural behaviour. We would watch it climb onto the large dining table and search for scraps of food. Its lithe body would wind between the half-empty butter dishes and many wine glasses that littered the surface. The guests, and even the jaded guides, would sit enthralled as it delicately picked at the morsels left on the plates, pausing every now and then to scan its surrounds for larger predators that we knew would never dare approach with humans around.
Allowing this behaviour bordered on illegal. For very sound reasons you are not allowed to feed wild animals. They can grow dependent on the junk that you give them and, in the case of animals like baboons, can become aggressive when they want a fix. We let the genet have its nibbles, though, as it was nothing but a snack before it began its real business of looking for any more squirrels we might have.
And it wasn’t long before we had another. Attie (who must have spent a lot of time climbing trees) was back in camp to fix something or other and arrived in the office with yet another baby that he had “found.” It was pink and almost hairless; its eyes were only dark smudges behind closed lids. Yolanda fell in love with it at first sight. He was quickly named after his deceased predecessor and became known as Chapter Two. The little bundle drank milk through an eyedropper until he became interested in fruit, nuts and the decorations in the curio shop. To Yolanda’s dismay, he gnawed at almost everything in the store with an insatiable appetite. Despite these problems, we all loved having him around. I spent up to ten hours a day watching animals, but nothing can compare to having fur to pat and innocent eyes that look at you with love. Perhaps I just needed a girlfriend, but I really fell for Two.
Chewing on things of value was not Two’s biggest vice. He liked to hitchhike, and without any warning would launch himself from tree branches, thatched roofs and the lightning conductor onto whoever might be walking by. The staff got used to these aerial assaults, but a visiting English lady became apoplectic when Two latched onto her leg as she stood at the breakfast buffet. She danced around, unsure as to what sort of creature was attacking her, panic written all over her face. Chapter Two clung on tighter still. Then when the woman stopped moving momentarily to clutch at her chest, Two scuttled to the safety of her head, which set her off again. Somehow, up to this point, the woman had held grimly onto the plate that she had been loading, but now she sent the eggs, cold cuts and fruit flying. Chapter Two quickly launched himself after the bounty, contentedly chewing away as the camp managers and I attempted to calm his victim.
We took to warning guests about the resident attack squirrel when they first arrived in the camp, as part of the overall safety speech that we gave to everybody. If it were the first camp the tourists were visiting, they would listen intently as we detailed the actions required if they encountered lion, leopard, elephant, buffalo or hippopotamus. Most would look bemused, though, at our description of the leaping squirrel after the other more deadly creatures, but they could no longer claim they weren’t warned.
Once they had been alerted to his nature, the visitors usually fell for Chapter Two as well. He was an African tree squirrel, which is a much smaller species than those familiar to Americans or Europeans, but has the same cute features. People were even more charmed by him when he made an unlikely friend.
Two’s buddy wasn’t another squirrel, and its appearance was as much of a surprise as Two’s sometimes was. At night Yolanda had started placing Two in a metal cupboard that sat outside the canvas-and-thatch office where she and the squirrel spent most of their time. Two had shredded some of the office paper and a bit of someone’s cap to make himself a nest, and it was obviously cozy enough to attract company. One morning when Yolanda was opening the cupboard that she kept locked against the genet, Two jumped out, followed closely by a mouse. They tumbled together on the ground for a moment, apparently in play, then the mouse darted into the grass and Chapter Two ran up Yolanda’s leg to say good morning. It became a routine and even reached the point that the mouse would be waiting outside the cupboard as dusk fell, nervously scanning the sky for aerial predators.
The mouse was as wild an animal as the warthogs, baboons, kudu and monkeys that visited the camp, and never let us touch it. We grew enormously fond of it, though, and loved that Two had a playmate closer to his own size than we were.
One morning, though, neither of them exited when the door was unlocked. The day before, one of the camp hands had dented the metal door, raising the corner of it just enough for a predator to slip in. Maybe it was a snake, maybe the genet. We would never know.
“No more pets!” Grant declared, because as he had predicted with the very first squirrel, Yolanda was distraught. We all were, but the guys felt the need to make light of it. At breakfast we would point at the furry, banded tail that hung from between two rafters and address its owner, the genet, “Did you eat Chapter Two? Come down here so I can smell your breath. If it smells like our squirrel, I’m putting you in an omelette.”
The genet ignored us, as did any animal that you spoke to. Yolanda would never forgive him and made sure she had left the table before he ventured onto it after dinner. Once again, though, his irresistible beauty bewitched the rest of us, and we would sit as quietly as the mouse he probably ate while he swirled amongst the wreckage of our dinner.
One evening, a few months after the demise of Chapter Two, there was a small group of clients at the table, plus Grant and me. The genet was making its way on the table, delicately sniffing at the scraps. One of the guests said, “Oh look, here comes another one.”
Grant and I shot blank looks at each other, then reeled as a squat black-and-white animal the size and shape of a wolverine hauled himself onto the table and growled at the world. It was a honey badger, a creature that tourists don’t hold in the same esteem as many of Africa’s glamour animals, but guides do. It has a reputation for being unafraid of anything, indestructible and ferocious.
“Shit!” Grant said, breaking the managerial protocol and swearing in front of guests. The lapse was justifiable.
“Everyone,” I swallowed, “slowly, and quietly, push your chairs back from the table.”
The genet hadn’t bothered with slowly or quietly, and in its hurry to get off the table had knocked over a small milk jug. The badger did a shuffling trot over to it and began to noisily slurp at the puddle, pausing every now and then to show off its milk moustache as it growled at us—just to let us know we shouldn’t think of taking its bounty.
Grant and I got the guests off the deck and safely to bed, suppressing the sort of hysterical giggles that come even to tough bushmen when a crisis has been narrowly averted.
“Bloody hell!” I said, as we stood at the side of the deck and watched the animal plow face-first into another plate of leftovers. “Where’d he come from?” Honey badgers aren’t endangered, but you don’t see them often at all—and no animal is ever as bold as this one was on its first encounter with humans. It must have been lurking around the camp unseen for weeks before deciding we weren’t dangerous and that it was time for it to take over.
We soon realised that the honey badger was there to stay. He started arriving almost every night, to the terror of the kitchen staff. There are many African superstitions that surround the honey badger, as there should be for what must be one of the planet’s toughest animals.
&nb
sp; Honey badgers belong to a group of only four animals that lions tend to avoid. The other three members are elephants, rhinoceroses and hippos. The last three are all enormous with tough skin and armed with weapons like tusks, horns or massive teeth. The badger is only about two feet long and built low to the ground. It is not fast and has no venom.
What it does have is tough but baggy skin that helps protect the animal against bee stings. The bagginess also allows it to twist almost 180 degrees if grabbed. If an animal is foolish enough to get a hold of a honey badger (and young lions and leopards sometimes try it—but only once), it faces two nasty defensive strategies. The first is an odour that the badger releases from its anal glands. Its stench would make a skunk ashamed of itself. The other is disproportionately long claws. When attacked, the badger aims these claws at the genitals. Anything bleeds to death very quickly if slashed in this area, and the badger has killed animals as large as buffalo that have done something to upset it.
So it was a mixture of fascination and crossed-leg trepidation that we lived with the badger as a nighttime visitor to the camp. As if he were a tourism veteran, he soon tired of the front of camp and only came to the back, where the staff lived and worked. He would raid the kitchen at will, arriving just after dusk. We had spent considerable time and energy hyena-proofing the kitchen building, which was a flimsy structure of canvas and eucalyptus poles. Thorny branches surrounded the building to a height and depth that normal animals couldn’t penetrate. The badger just put his head down and, seemingly oblivious to the pin-sharp and inch-long acacia thorns, plowed in, slashed an entrance through the canvas, walked straight to the garbage bin, hooked his back legs over its rim, and bungee jumped in. At first the native staff would squeal and climb onto the benches, but soon they grew used to Badge, as we named him, and carried on with their business, stepping around him as they needed to.