Safari in Botswana
Lionesses make for a killer safari experience in Botswana, writes Christine Flatley.
‘‘A LWAYS look for the vultures, because where there are vultures there is a kill, and where there is a kill, there might be lions.’’
Phinley, my guide on safari in Botswana, knows what he is talking about.
He has the African bush in his blood, and has been a guide for Wilderness Safaris in the Okavango Delta’s Chitabe concession for about 20 years.
He knows the area like the back of his hand; any aberration stands out.
He can spot hippos on the horizon, instantly identify hundreds of impossibly iridescent birds flitting between the branches of the jackalberry trees, and spy tortoises that look like rocks in the tall grass.
I enthusiastically join in, but my years spent living in the city are painfully obvious as I repeatedly mistake towering termite mounds poking out from behind the scrubby bush for giraffes.
This afternoon we are searching for the big game — lions and leopards.
The sun has lost its heat and the cats will have roused from their midday slumber to go in search of dinner.
The Land Cruiser bounces along the sandy track, stopping every now and then so Phinley can check the ground for paw prints that might indicate we are close.
Tracking animals is a large part skill, a little bit of luck, and a good dose of patience.
The guides are bush detectives.
They can tell you how long ago an animal was in the area by the freshness of the poo and the clarity of the tracks.
They listen to the warning chatter of birds or baboons.
A patch of flattened grass might indicate where a lion has been napping, a broken branch where an elephant has recently lumbered past.
They are all clues that go unnoticed by the uninitiated. Phinley stops the car again. He has heard something. He pauses and scans the landscape.
In the distance, a kettle of vultures rises briefly from the ground, flapping madly, and then lands again.
They are ugly creatures, with their hunched shoulders, unkempt feathers, hooked beaks and balding heads. They scatter as we drive close to them.
There, in the grass, lies the remains of a warthog.
It is fresh, not more than an hour old, and even the flies are yet to gather.
‘‘Lions,’’ Phinley says confidently.
‘‘I think they have probably gone to the water hole for a drink now that they have eaten. We will check there.’’
He takes the car offroad, and it is only a few minutes before he sees them, the long golden grass parting like water as the lions silently make their way across the clearing.
It is a mother lioness and her two young daughters.
Phinley knows them well, and has been observing their movements for months.
They have recently broken away from the main pride to start their own.
The split has been made out of necessity. Growing numbers in the main pride mean more competition for food.
The mother lioness is doing a good job. Her daughters are healthy and fat and have clearly been given the lion’s share, so to speak, of the meal.
The mother is hurt, with a gash to her hind leg where the warthog got off a final hit with its tusk before succumbing to its fate.
‘‘Warthogs are dangerous animals,’’ Phinley says.
‘‘Those tusks can cause damage, which is why she has not let the younger cubs make this kill. She will survive this wound though.’’
The lions take a shortcut through dense forest and we circle around and meet them on the other side.
When they reach the marshy water hole the family stops to rehydrate, and the lioness tends to her wound.
They flop down to rest, their bellies full for now.
We leave them to digest their meal and start the drive back to camp.
It is a good half hour to get home and it feels like we have left the lions far behind us.
However, in the morning there are lion prints around the camp.
‘‘It’s possible it was these same three,’’ Phinley tells me at breakfast.
‘‘They prefer to travel at night when it is cooler.’’
It is a stark reminder that you cannot leave the bush behind.
‘‘This is why we don’t allow guests to walk around without an escort after dark,’’ Phinley says.
‘‘Lions are opportunistic killers. They won’t attack you when you are in the car, but if you are on the ground you are a potential meal.’’
I lock the tent up very carefully every evening after that, doublechecking each screen and door before I retire.
I pull the red air horn they provide for wild animal emergencies just a little bit closer to the bed, and drift into sleep as the three lionesses make tracks through my dreams. — AAP