IN THE LEOPARD’S LAIR
Protective instinct is a frightening force
I SPENT A NUMBER of years on a private hunting concession bordering the Central Kalahari Game Reserve in Botswana, in an area known as the Hainaveld. Our southern border was the reserve fence, and our eastern border the Ngamiland fence. This is mostly dune-veld, fearsomely hot in summer and very cold of an evening in winter.
One morning, I took a couple who were visiting on a game drive. My wife Vicky and young son David accompanied us on the inevitable search for lions, which are what all visitors to the Kalahari want to see – we had many of these magnificent animals in our area. On this particular day, however, we found none, though we saw plenty of fresh tracks where the lions had dug their way under the fence, gone for a drink of fresh water no more than 30 metres from our guests’ tent, and then headed south where they had again dug their way under the fence and into the reserve.
As the day was now becoming uncomfortably warm, I consulted with my guests and we decided to head back to the lodge for a good brunch. Our return route took us past what is one of the largest and probably the oldest ant-bear holes in the region, so, purely for the entertainment of our guests, I turned off and made for this den to let them see something of interest. Unbeknown to me, my decision would place us all in an extremely dangerous situation.
I parked the Land Cruiser about 20 metres from the main entrance and we all debussed to go and see the big hole – except my wife Vicky who, having seen it many times, chose to remain in the vehicle. There were a number of entrances to this cavernous hole, but I took the guests directly to the biggest and most impressive one – quite large enough for a man to walk into, remaining upright for a good part of the way. The gentleman with us on this occasion was a portly chap of around 50 years of age. He asked me if I would stand in
the entrance so that he could take a photograph, as he wanted a person in the picture to show the comparative dimensions of this amazing excavation. I had done this a number of times in the past, so I promptly walked down into the entrance as far as I could go without having to bend down. At this point, my head was roughly level with the ground on which he was standing.
WHILE THE GUEST was busy taking photographs, I became aware of a faint, periodic “thump… thump… thump” repeating at intervals of about three to four seconds, and emanating from the direction of another entrance some three metres further along the tunnel. When the guest had finished taking his photos, I decided to investigate the source of the strange noise. I bent over and walked deeper into the tunnel and peered inside. Having come from bright sunlight into the now very murky tunnel, it took some time for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. After a while, I was able to make out that some animal had, from the other end of the tunnel, pushed up a heap of sand to partition off a section of that side with its entrance. However, a crescent-shaped gap remained open at the top of the heap of sand, and peering over it were two small faces! At first I thought they were two baby honey-badgers, so I crept further along the tunnel for a closer view of what I was looking at, or indeed, what was looking at me.
At that moment, from the gap above the sand-pile, came the most terrifyingly intense snarl of pent-up fury I have ever heard! I instantly realised I was now down a deep hole with a furious leopard and her young cubs, with nothing between us but a few inches of loose sand, with another open entrance
on her side, and just
There were a number of entrances to this cavernous hole, but I took the guests directly to the biggest and most impressive one – quite large enough for a man to walk into
metres away, my guest and his wife and my nine-year-old son exposed to mortal danger.
The urge to take flight was almost irresistible, but fortunately I resisted it. I slowly backed out of the hole until my head cleared the tunnel, and then, in as controlled a voice as I could muster, I quietly told the onlookers please to walk back and get on to the game car immediately. My son David, recognising the warning tone of my voice, did not hesitate and strode off at once, taking the gentleman’s wife in tow, but our intrepid camera-man actually started to approach the entrance in which I was standing. Then he heard the leopard’s snarl and, demonstrating a turn of speed and agility that would be the envy of any athlete half his age, he literally flew up the side of the Cruiser and hit the deck under the game viewing benches, leaving his terrified wife trying to open the tailgate in order to climb in. Young David assisted her, and that just left me to get myself out of the predicament I had brought upon us.
I had intentionally remained in the entrance in the hope that the furious leopard’s attention would be focussed on me long enough to allow the rest of the party to get out of harm’s way. Fortunately this worked. Now it was my turn; slowly and very quietly I backed out of the entrance and made my way to the Land Cruiser, expecting at any moment to see a yellow streak of snarling fury burst from the other entrance, heading straight at me. Thankfully, she chose to remain with her cubs. As we drove off, I looked back and saw her head just above the lip of the entrance to her lair, watching our retreat.
We were very lucky to escape unscathed, and for a long time I was painfully remorseful over my heedless negligence which could have so quickly ended in tragedy. After all, I had visited that site at least once a month and knew it well – it was an obvious choice for a leopard’s lair. Over and over, I mentally went through my mistakes. For a start, when you live in untamed places, rule number one is: never take anything for granted. A simple cursory inspection from the relative safety of the Land Cruiser would have revealed that the burrow had new occupants and was now a no-go area. That leopard turned out to be a young female, so this could well have been her first litter. After much contemplation, I reached the conclusion that the faint thumping sound I’d heard on first entering the tunnel must have been the leopard’s tail switching from side to side against the tunnel walls. Angry cats do that.
If you live in untamed places, rule number one is: never take anything for granted
I HAVE NEVER had anyone in my care hurt or injured in the bush, not even bitten by a snake, but I believe this was probably the closest I ever came to breaking that record! I was particularly proud of the way David had reacted, seeing to the safety of the lady first. Needless to add, brunch was a tad subdued.