Call From the Wild

Spinning the wheel I encourage the cruiser into steep descent as I drop my eyes to check the tilt will not flip us. To my left I hear a distinct gasp for air as my passenger feels the floor fall away and realizes that I’m actually going to go down into the river-bed. I now know I’m doing something right because without some adrenaline this would be but a tour. Lord forbid that should ever be perceived of our safari adventure or that we should stick to a level track. I honor you all that have been willing to go unquestioningly where we have led.

It’s been a year since we bundubashed the Mareho and it’s that time of the year again. Rains have moved north drawing the migration of Beast and Zebra. They face the unending gauntlet of rivers, mountains, Lions, Hyenas and Poachers. Here at the junction of the Mareho and the Orangi River they find themselves bunched into a funnel of ominous bush that crossing is bound to cost in blood. It’s a test that seems cruel if not bizarre and yet it’s the way of things in this land of the Tse Tse Fly. The crossing toll collector here is the Lion and she is not corrupt. Non negotiable steadfastness a trait seldom found in Africa as a whole. Payment will be taken like it or not.
Looking at the water, rocks and steep slope we’ll have to negotiate I notice the pug marks of a number of lion but we’re committed and have to shoot for the crest of the river bank. I gun the engine. Knuckles pale and breaths are held as the cruiser lifts its nose to an impossibly absurd angle and we see only sky through the overhanging Fig Trees.

Pug marks are clear but no Lions to be seen in the riverbed. We search the bush along the bank seeing only Cape Buffalo and sign of Elephant having been all over the place some hours earlier. They have a free pass although the Lion does not like it. The King of Beasts is mesmerized by delusion of grandeur but will not rub it in when Jumbo is around. In fact as though blind or lost the Lion is regally nonchalant in its retreat ahead of a trumpeting elephant. As it exits a scene it casually looks over its shoulder to make sure some peeping Beest does not witness the humility. Or even worse that the Hyena should laugh while agreeing with the Lion in only one thing, the best view of an elephant is its south side heading north. It’s tough being a Lion without a doubt.

Stopping for a breather we see vultures flying low to the south west. The Lions have been found for us. No electronic lion locators here. Just the sure fire indicators nature provides as

wings from the sky home in on the beacon that is a Beast that was until it made a bad career move and fell under the wrath of Mareho’s toll collectors. There was no animosity to their passing judgment just dire necessity in their struggle to survive. There are no meals on wheels here nor vending machines of high protein snacks.
Coming around the thicket of Acacia Kirikii we take our front row seats in the theater before us. Seven Lions hold center stage as they polish off the last morsels of what was a four hundred pound animal. They pay little heed to us and are completely aware that the script requires that vultures like props waiting in the wings are to come on. We sit in the blistering sun with shadows occasionally provided by an increasing number of vultures circling overhead as they approach for landing. The food chain is at work, the Lions know it but are reluctant to withdraw and only do so after flushing those vultures that have already landed as a reminder that they’re always beholden to the collector. Inevitably vultures like addicted petty crooks on parole scurry around quite sure that the Lion will tire and move on leaving them their right. Their only concern is in fact that some miserable Hyena might butt in and delay their encore but since none are yet to be seen who knows it might be their lucky day. Little do they know or really care that Ngai is producer, director and conductor here and the script will be followed to the letter. So, sure enough three Hyenas and a Silver Backed Jackal show up. Ignoring their lines and prompts they all pile in and it’s dust to dust.
If the spirit of this Beast is free at last I hope it’s far away and not around to see this final mayhem.
Our bundubash home becomes silent and reflective once again as surely as adrenaline subsides while the Collectors fade into the shade of the ravine.
Over two million animals run the gauntlet everyday.