The editor
I NEARLY LOST THEM TO A CHARGING WARTHOG
Crone jewels in jeopardy
Most of the adventures in this issue are a little offbeat, the type that often lead to encounters with remarkable people and animals. One of the stories reminded me about a meeting I had with an African wild dog and a warthog, and why I have a burden to bear.
We smelt them before we could see them, a gamey funk thatʼs peculiar to wild dogs, part puppy-breath, part blood-and-guts. These are ruthless hunters – a pack will devour half its prey before the animal is even dead. At the core of their hunting is a social dynamic and a mastery of chase and this pack was particularly good at killing warthogs of which there were plenty at Zimanga Private Game Reserve in KZN.
But I didnʼt know this at the time and, on this chilly morning, the dogs were at rest beneath a large thicket. Our guide, Hendri Venter, climbed out of the vehicle and beckoned for my wife, a friend and I to join him as he approached slowly on foot. The pack was relatively habituated and they hardly moved as we edged closer. A few adults were scattered in the undergrowth and the juveniles were huddled together, their painted coats like a wild quilt.
We got as close as we dared and then crouched down to take photos. One of the adults whiffed the air and stood, followed by a few more adults. They ambled towards a clearing and we followed. I moved slightly away from Hendri, determined to get a bead on one particular dog. I lay down to get a low angle shot as it sniffed about but I wasnʼt satisfied with the result. Then I saw a large hole in the ground nearby – the perfect vantage point. Easing myself in, I crouched and aimed my camera at the dog which was now staring at me, suddenly very curious about my movements.
The angle was perfect, its expression – wonderful, and I snapped away until I heard a faint rumbling. The dogʼs ears perked up and the ground began to shake. The rumbling grew louder and I rose from my crouch as a large warthog burst out of the hole and barrelled between my legs, a tusk shaving some skin off my right calf and its head scraping the inside of my thighs. The dogs leapt after it and the chase was on.
Hendri and the others were flabbergasted as I explained where the warthog had come from but there was no time to waste and we sprang in the vehicle to catch up with the dogs. A cloud of red dust loomed ahead, the dogs had caught the hog and were devouring it as it squealed, a gruesome death I felt responsible for, probably having scared the poor creature out of its lair. Finally the coup de grâce was administered, and by the time the other dogs arrived, there was little left.
The latecomers sniffed about and, lo and behold, found another hole. The excitement rose. There was a new quarry down there and the same dog I had photographed earlier ran over to the hole. Then, I swear, it looked back up at me imploringly, no doubt willing me to get in that hole and help them get one more meal.