The Lion with no Pride

Very few people can have endured the charge of a bull elephant at night while in pitch darkness, seated in a low, open vehicle in the midst of a pride of a dozen lions. I have. And it can be great fun if you’re with the right people! Here’s the story.  

    

 A decade ago I undertook the evaluation of nature guides for the renowned conservation and tourist hosting company CCAfrica. The company is now known as ‘& Beyond’. The two main nature resources concerned were Phinda in KwaZulu-Natal and Londolozi in Mpumalanga.

 The project was a pleasure to undertake, and a great experience. Each guide I assessed had already completed a tough training programme headed by two young professional ranger-conservationists, Graeme Vercueil and Allister Kilpin. The guides skills and knowledge had then been refined during an extended period of practical implementation with customers. I accompanied many of these excursions with customers, since they gave me an opportunity to see how the guides performed in managing the cycle of routine drives.

 Day tours on an open vehicle were exceptional experiences, but the night drives presented a special treat. With nocturnal creatures going about their business, there was a great deal of activity. One night drive proved especially memorable.

 

Start of the dusk patrol
 

A young guide I'll refer to as Glen drove the open vehicle. An African guide named Vincent accompanied him. In daylight drives in open country, Vincent would seat himself on a chair at the front of the vehicle; but on night drives, he would be inside the vehicle on the left seat for safety.

 
A .375 Holland and Holland Magnum rifle, loading cartridges the length of a man’s finger, lay in front of the two on a metal cradle mounted on the dashboard. Sound strategies were in place to ensure that the guide never used the rifle except in extreme circumstances. To kill a wild creature would signify the most abysmal failure.
 

“The lions were seen in the northern sector this morning before lunch, to the west of the marshlands,” Glen told me on the afternoon before the drive. “They seem to have slept off a big meal during the morning, and might eat again this afternoon. They took a zebra, I think.”

“How many lions?”

“There are four adults, one a mature male, and seven half-grown cubs.”

“Do you think they’ll hunt again tonight?”

“Probably not. I think they’ll finish the zebra and then sleep it all off.”

 

We set off from the beautiful Forest Lodge with six guests. I sat behind the African guide. The dark olive-green vehicle carried a supply of rugs because it could be cold when seated on the raised seats with no roof, and a windscreen that protruded just above head height. Although we would travel slowly, the air could be chilly, and Glen advised the guests to dress warmly to fend off the cold, night autumn air. Most brought jerseys or jackets, as well as balaclavas and even gloves.

 
We ventured forth on a night that began as black as ink. Our powerful torch, driven by the vehicle engine, cast a sharp, penetrating glare of light into the darkness. To avoid damaging the delicate tapetum cells found at the rear of the eyes of most predators and certain other crepucscular or nocturnal animals, we had covered the raw, destructive white bulb and lens with a red filter before we left.
 

As we progressed, a crescent–shaped sliver of moon appeared low on the eastern horizon and climbed imperceptibly in a long arc through the sky. The darkness gradually gave way to a blush of silvery moonlight that bathed the landscape and cast dark shadows across the grass.

 

We were fortunate in the many wild creatures seen; a number of impala whose eyes reflected brightly in the darkness; a genet, and even a bat hanging head-down from an overhead branch. All had the glare reflected away from them as soon as contact was made, to ensure protection of the vulnerable tapetum cells in their eyes.

 

Eventually the radio crackled into life, and a report came in from a ranger who had led an afternoon excursion to the area. He said that instead of hunting again the pride had fed that afternoon, quite late. It was resting in the proximity of a sand forest lying two kilometres west of a small dam that adjoined the marshlands.

 We wound our way carefully towards the forest, and in due course slowed to a crawl because we were near the pride. To the left of the track lay the seven youngsters, sprawled on the ground amidst short grass, and all fast asleep. As we drew closer, one or two ears twitched, and an occasional sleepy head rose with effort and then sank again.

 

“Don’t stand up or reach out. Just stay seated, and the less talking now or distracting noises, the better. We don’t need silence, just no hubbub.”

 

To the uninitiated, it might seem strange that lions are not disturbed by the presence of a vehicle, and the presence of humans on it, unprotected by glass windows and a roof. Lions seem, however to smell only the petrol, oil and other lubricants, and tend to globalise the vehicle and the living creatures on it into a gestalt; that is, a single large metal object devoid of living parts. It is of course not reassuring when a lioness walks past your seat two metres away and slightly beneath you, flattens her ears and stares straight into your eyes for a time as if you were prey.

 “Follow Vincent’s light,” said Glen. “He’ll pick out the youngsters for you.”

 

There was palpable excitement from the tourists as we wended our way through the sleeping, half-grown, or three-quarter grown youngsters. The largest amongst them were quite capable of disembowelling a human if provoked to do so. Soon gently snoring lions, lying in a variety of poses, sleeping off their ample meal of zebra, surrounded us. Vincent went about his duties quietly and efficiently, and Glen picked a way through the carnivores.

 

After moving forward a further fifty metres, we came to where the adults were sleeping. The male was a magnificent specimen of four years of age, with a dark mane. Full grown, weighed about two hundred and twenty kilograms, and his distended stomach showed that he had fed well. Two young lionesses were with him, weighing perhaps a hundred and thirty kilograms each. An older female lay a few metres further on. All were fast asleep when we arrived, and barely moved as the engine purred towards them. All had fed well. We studied them in silence, broken only by a whispered remark or metallic click as someone adjusted the light or a camera. The scene was a perfect picture of calm.

 Suddenly from the left rear of the truck, from perhaps a hundred metres off, came a shrill squeal of surprize, followed by low grunts and the rustling of bushes.

 

“Elephant,” said Glen. “It’s blundered into the cubs, and doesn’t sound too pleased.”

 

The shrieks rose to a crescendo, and we tracked the large herbivore moving forward in the darkness on our left flank. Shortly thereafter, the first of the young lions arrives, bewildered and trotting towards the adults for protection. They let out little growls and grunts as they came. Quite soon, all seven were around the vehicle, prowling around us, bewildered and bemused as they tried to make out what to do.

 

Although we could not see the elephant, it was clear that it had been alarmed at its encounter and was now enraged and irascible. It was moving forward on our flank, occasionally dislodging dry boughs or even snapping saplings as it barged its way through the scattered shrubs and trees.

 

Now also alarmed, the four adult lions rose to their feet. The male began to roar, an ear splitting volume of sound from the proximity of a few metres. Facing the location of the elephant, he raised his head and with flanks heaving, began a series of guttural roars that began as a deep aarouff! aarrouff! aarrouff! and ended in a string of panting grunts. Not to be outdone, the two younger females joined in, and soon we were audience to a chorus of thunderous challenges ringing through the African bush. Confident in their parents’ expertise, the youngsters hung close to them, which implied their continuing to mill around the open vehicle. The rugs and anoraks each of the passengers wore offered little protection if one of the lions had decided to sample any of the seated spectators.

 

“Don’t worry, they’ve all eaten,” Glen offered as a means of reassurance.

 

Suddenly, I could hear the squeals and trumpets of the elephant no longer receding. The great beast seemed to have stopped perhaps the length of a rugby field away in the darkness. There was renewed energy from his giant lungs as he let out a particularly shrill shriek, and then the sounds of branches and dry vegetation snapping. It came ever closer, and the truth became clear. We were in the path of a charging elephant…and from the ease with which it snapped off or cast aside trunks and branches as it came, it seemed to be a mature specimen.

 

The bravado of the lions evaporated. Frankly said, they panicked. The entire pride fled. One adult female found the bonnet of the vehicle obstructing her. She sprang clear onto it and then leapt down the other side of the vehicle. The male and two females scampered under the rear of the vehicle. One glanced up at me and its eyes met mine for a moment. There was no hostility or predatory intent, but only fleeting anxiety and a desire to be gone.

 

“Great,” I said to Glen. “Your big male gets us into trouble, and then they run. We’re left to handle the mess. Where’s his pride?”

 

We were still facing the awesome, crashing power of the charge. The elephant was now very near.

 “Vincent, take the red filter off,” Glen instructed the assistant guide calmly as he started the vehicle engine.

 

The .375 Holland and Holland Magnum remained resting in its cradle. One could now see the swaying of vegetation twenty metres off and hear sharp cracks as small trees went down. Then a sapling the width of one’s calf shattered at the edge of vision and the shape of a huge bull elephant exploded into our circle of light.

 

He stopped abruptly no more than the length of the vehicle from us, furious and vengeful as Vincent directed the light up at him with the filter off. His big domed head loomed over a flailing trunk, and then, bemused and bewildered by the glare, he sought the objects of his displeasure. Trumpeting and furious, he pacing up and down but did not advance. The light was held steadily as the engine was kept turning. The .375 still lay in its cradle.

 

After what seemed an eternity, yet was but a moment, the big bull swung away. As rapidly as it had come, it disappeared remarkably silently like a wraith into the enveloping darkness.

 

“Yes,” said the young ranger. “Our lions got us into this, and then left us to handle the mess. As you say, ‘where’s their pride?’”