The African Food Chain

Peter’s eyes opened in slow motion to the sound of the weavers singing their sweet morning melody. The blood orange African sun glowed through his tent window, gently caressing Peter’s skin like a warm morning hug. He sat up in a slouch and rubbed the crust out of his eyes with his callused knuckles. “Living the dream,” he thought to himself as he quickly did the math on how many hours they would be out on the Serengeti Plains. Yesterday, it was seventeen hours of conservation meetings and lion observation. Most of the lion observation happened at night and the people observation during the day. At this stage of the lion conservation project, there were more lions than people. Peter was desperately in need of help and today he would find an unlucky chap who was willing to sleep a total of four hours a night for three months straight. He didn’t have the same energy he once did in his twenties.

The hiring process took far longer than Peter expected. He put advertisements out through local safari magazines with a title that read, “Lion Research Technician Needed”. The description didn’t do Peter any favors. The pay was 20 Rand per hour, the equivalent of about 2 dollars per hour, and it started with, “risk-taker needed”. This of course appealed to a scrawny, naïve white boy from Durban, South Africa called Douglas Rattray or “Doug” as his mates liked to call him. His mother still called him Douglas. He was a risk-taker, but a dense one at that. Usually, there wasn’t much thought put before his actions. Yet somehow, he would end up on the Serengeti with Peter, a number of wealthy investors, and several prides of the most dangerous big cat on the block: a lion.

“Hello, I am looking for Mr. Peter Evans. Have you seen him? My name is Douglas Rattray,” Doug said as he firmly stuck out his hand. Peter smiled, exposing his crooked teeth peering behind his tilted smile.

“Well, you’re looking at him. Welcome to the team,” he said as he shook Doug’s hand with his right and combed through his grey, unbrushed mane with the left.

“I’m sorry I don’t understand. Did I just get the job? I’m not that good looking,” he smiled so big Peter thought he might split his lips. He handed Doug the research project contracts.

“Chap, you’re the only one who applied. Now, cut the cheek, set your stuff down in the small tent at the end, and then come help me explain to rich people why they should be spending money on this project. Also, don’t forget to sign the contracts!” Peter grumbled. Cheek is the South African term for sass.

Doug shuffled to the tent at the end of camp, duffle bags jerking his long skinny frame drastically to the left and then the right. Peter couldn’t help but giggle to himself, “This won’t last long.”

The investors stared coldly as Doug and Peter entered the meeting tent. Doug had stowed the cheek and was all business. Peter was pleasantly surprised as Doug circled the table and charmed every single investor. There was something about his unruly golden-brown curls that bounced in front of his green eyes that you couldn’t help but love. He was a sun-kissed, wild African boy through and through. Peter was reassured. He knew that if Doug could deal with the people, the lions would be easy.

The fact is, however, there is nothing easy about the African wild. It is aggressive, dangerous if not navigated properly, and no one knew it better than Peter. He had been studying lions in the Serengeti since he was in his early twenties, the same age as Doug. They packed the land rover methodically with night vision cameras and, of course, beer. Off into the bush they went, beer in hand.

Although Doug was familiar with the bush, he did not have extensive experience with wildlife, especially animals of a more dangerous nature. Peter made sure the rules were clear: no straying farther than twenty feet from the vehicle on your own and never leave the vehicle without a rifle. This seemed ironic to Doug considering this was a research and conservation effort, but Peter explained that they couldn’t get their message out to the world if they were dead. “Dead?” thought Doug. Peter noticed the fear flash across his face.

“You could die, Doug. Those forms you signed when you got the job laid out the risk factors explicitly. Do young people even read contracts anymore?”

“I mean I read that part, but sometimes contracts just say that to cover someone’s ass,” Doug retorted.

“For good reason! This is a dangerous place, and these are dangerous animals. We are living in their world. Have some respect and read the bloody contract,” Peter was frustrated. Doug’s naivety was concerning to him at times. “He’ll learn,” he quietly thought to himself.

A male lion can weigh up to 420 pounds. However, they are not the ones to watch your six over. The lionesses do most of the hunting. They can weigh up to 280 pounds. They require unconditional respect. There are no guidelines for their prey as long as it is flesh and bone. They are the boldest of African species and set no limits on what they can kill. I had once witnessed a pride of lionesses take down a full-grown female elephant that had just given birth. They were ruthless killers. The lionesses jumped up two at a time, drawing blood through elephant skin which is as thick as the rubber on a tractor tire. Eventually, the elephant lost enough blood that she came to her knees. Imagine what a single lioness could do to a human. Now imagine what a whole pride could do.

As soon as Peter was finished explaining the rules to Doug, a lioness started to circle the Landrover. Her eyes were glistening with starvation. She circled the vehicle once and then suspiciously walked away beyond their line of sight in the dark, African night. Before Peter and Doug could even finish their exhales, two thuds hit the left rear passenger door. Another lioness from the nearby pride was curious. Normally, the behavior of the pride is much more reserved, but due to the drought, they were in a state of famine. Peter knew a close call when he saw one and decided to abort the research for the night and respect the wild.

The nights following were prosperous. They documented many hours of lion behavior. Peter was satisfied with his new helper. Over the weeks, Doug had developed extraordinary patience and became talented at sifting through hours of camera footage to study new or existing lion behaviors. Peter made him do this not only to avoid having to do it himself, but he wanted Doug to see the unpredictability of the wild.

“They are doing the same bloody thing every night: sleeping!” exclaimed Doug.

“That’s because they are starving you moron. Just wait until an impala walks by,” Peter said calmly.

“So they go ‘ra ra’ and eat it. So what? Lions eat meat. What is so extraordinary about that?” Doug became embittered. He was usually patient, but the lack of sleep was getting to him.

“Because lions are not big fluffy kitties or kings of the jungle or Disney heroes, Doug! They are real, they are a valued part of the ecosystem, and people are destroying them for living room carpets. THAT is why we are here. We are here to fix a problem mankind has created for themselves. Now if I were you, I would sit back down and go through the rest of last night’s video, so we have some actual data to share,” Peter was passionate. He believed in this mission and he wanted Doug to as well.

The bush is loud at night. It is a catastrophe of birds, crickets, and mating calls. But if you sleep in it long enough it turns from catastrophe to lullaby and you miss it when you’re gone. Doug had just settled into his African lullaby and was in a deep sleep. Peter was as well, but he was jolted awake by chilling screams just outside his tent. Instead of a glowing African sun, he woke up to chills from the part in his hair to the pads of his feet. He leaped out of bed, rifle in hand, remembering the rules. It was a cacophony of growling, shuffling, and scratching, but Doug’s eerie screams pierced through it all.

A lioness had gone into his tent and started to drag Doug out by his leg. Her teeth smoothly punctured his calf muscle as he shrilled in pain. His flailing made for more aggressive behavior. The pride closed in on the kill. They snapped their daggers at each other as they pounced and ripped and chewed. Peter recalled the smell of gore and blood. The stench filled his nose and made such a permanent impression that he can smell it to this day. The screams suddenly stopped. The attempts to kill the lionesses had failed. The entire project at that moment failed.

Doug’s mother, father, and sister caught the first flight they could, but due to the remote location, they did not arrive until 36 hours after the incident. Peter had not moved from his crouched, sitting position on his bed. The smell was still there. The perfume of intestines and death. He meant to prepare a statement, but how do you find the words for this insurmountable situation? “Respect the wild,” he muttered to himself as he rocked back and forth, eyelids peeled back in shock.

Peter opened his eyes the next morning, but the blood orange African sun was cold. There was no hug, only tears.

“They’re here,” Peter’s assistant said meekly as she peered through his tent flap. A day of the impossible lay ahead.