Today carnivores rule, and the life and death drama visits the Chudob waterhole in Etosha National Park in Namibia. The waterhole is a pretty oval of blue water sunken in the ochre colored banks and, with its plume of tall green reeds, decidedly bucolic. It is also -- now that the dry season is riding on dusty sails of desert winds -- an open air theater where wildlife plays are performed.
None of them are rehearsed or scheduled, but all involve a cast of characters arriving from the surrounding desert, sometimes heralded by a puff of dust, and at times hardly ever noticed. They may be gentle and soothing, as when a herd of thirsty impalas sip daintily at the edge of the pond. They may also explode with sudden ferocity and are blood curdlingly brutal. If programs of such plays were written, they would stress that the "brutal" label is strictly human-made: for the predators of Africa any moral judgment is meaningless. All plays speak about survival and leave human sentiments aside.
John and I, busy attending to elephant's tracks in dry mud of the Etosha pan, arrive too late to witness the opening act. But Marianne and Howard, our friends and fellow photographers who tend to appear at such events with an uncanny sense of timing, tell us about four young lions who showed up at Chudob soon after daybreak. The cats were playful and lively. They tried to chase animals while kicking up a whole lot of fine sand, but all that effort led them nowhere. Then they noticed a kudu bull -- that of a magnificent corkscrew horns and a tawny coat -- who after seeking safety in the deeper end of Chudob tried to sneak out and escape. Marianne thought his long wait made him stiff because after the lions gave chase he seemed to stumble. But who knows? Perhaps just the sight of impeding death closing the distance in smooth, long leaps made him unsteady and weak?
What we see is act two: a carcass, with its bright magenta guts spilling and the magnificent kudu horns in repose. And the lions, now satiated, resting nearby. The day drags hotly throughout the bland afternoon hours, and the lions take turns lapping the pond's water and flopping down again, their muscular shoulders relaxed and soft. The dense ranks of springbok, zebra, impala and oryx, well aware of the lions' proximity and patiently waiting, slowly begin to descend toward the water's edge. A young male elephant comes, too, and smelling the lions he advances toward them with his great cabbage ears flapping, the trunk sneaking, the feet pounding.
He puts on a good show and the great cats retreat a short distance to placate him, but return as soon as he leaves.
Then from a thicket of mopane trees a new shape appears: a massive head, a long neck, low hunches. A spotted hyena. It comes slowly, obliquely, as if that pile of meat on the ochre bank meant nothing at all, but it comes closer and closer, pulled by the string of a scent we cannot detect.
Then, as the third act opens, the singing begins. Loud, piercing and steady call of the clan, summoning its own. And very soon another shape appears, a twin of the first. And another. We try to count the shapes but as more arrive, the cats stir, and the largest lioness runs over, perhaps trying to intercept and stem the flow of hyenas which multiply as if by some dark desert magic.
I quickly do the math: four lions, dozen hyenas... that's three hyenas per lion. Three pairs of steely jaws against one cat, however powerful he is. But the math fails as soon as the invaders reach the carcass and their song changes: it is no longer a summoning call but a steady raucous growl of intimidation, and threat, and triumph.
THIS CARCASS IS NOW OURS
The lioness knows it, too, but tries to rewrite the play's inevitable ending. Boy, does she try! While the smaller cats retreat far enough to be safe, she grabs one hyena by the throat, slashes another, then turns and pounces on several rushing shadows. But the hyenas are too quick, and now there are two dozen, and they know they are winning. Some attack the lioness from behind and aim at her genitals, unprotected by her teeth and claws, and she crouches low to protect herself, the same way we saw grizzlies in Alaska trying to escape the fangs of a family of wolves. And in this crouch she suddenly looks vulnerable and submissive, even though she still tries to bite, and slash, and grab, and rescue what she can.
The dust stirred by the fight rises fast, and the hyenas heads appearing from the flying dirt remind me of taxidermy trophies, great theatrical props devoid of bodies and suspended in space. The lioness retreats, then turns and tries again, but nothing can be done:
the kudu carcass is now entirely covered with so many spotted bodies that only one hoofed foot pokes from under the mass of tearing, snapping and chewing hyenas.
We look in silence. The play has ended. There is no applause and no flowers are tossed for the best actors. But we know we have just witnessed a great performance, illuminated by the brave and the athletic and the determined, who just want to hold on to life. At whatever cost, with whatever it takes.
©Yva Momatiuk
No comments:
Post a Comment