Zambian Wilds

Luangwa, September 2017

Warning: May be graphic to some readers

Ⅰ. “The eye never forgets what the heart has seen” -African Proverb

We paid our national park fees to a camo-clad, rifle-holding man staring us down. He was stationed beneath a sign marked ‘Wildlife Crossing’. A soft, dusty African sunrise painted the sky behind him. We passed over a bridge, crocodiles slithering beneath, iconic Kingfishers fluttering above, and entered the park.

Crash. It was a cranium on cranium collision. A pair of impalas were getting ready for round two, taking their places to muster up speed and locking aim on their opponent’s head. The winner’s prize: a mate.

Impalas are a beautiful, bouncy breed of antelope. They have a pattern of three stripes running across their body, from amber to white. The stripes are so distinct it seems as if someone painted each herd with three simple brushstrokes. They have big black eyes, cute short snouts, and tiny prancing hooves. This area was crawling with them.

The other impalas were ignoring the male’s combat. They frolicked across golden fields, leaping over tree roots. The ground was covered in large, red flowers, an impala’s favorite snack. They turned their heads towards the vehicle as we drove by, cheeks full, red petals between their gnawing teeth.

Those red flowers came from an essential tree in the bush, the Sausage Tree. It only blooms at night, so bats can claim the nectar. The seeds come in large sausage-shaped pods. They’re as hard as a coconut, but baboons can crack them open with fearsome canines. The trunk has a unique texture and twist, so it’s easy for leopards to climb. The same tree that feeds the impala with flowers also gives its predators a place to scout. Out here, in the wilds, everything is connected.

Each bend in the road revealed purple-tongued giraffes, laughing hyenas, or hippos spurting beneath water lilies. Our safari vehicle left a trail of orange clouds as lush grasslands changed to dusty Earth. A path of ancient baobabs, green lakes, and endless beauty lead us further into the wilderness.

We rounded a corner and I gasped.

A tiny black pupil centered in a pool of deep amber, focusing on my wide, brown eyes.

I was looking into the eye of a wild lioness, crouching over her cub. The lioness had a black marking encircling each eye and a bold white stripe underneath.

We stared into each other’s souls. A darker tuft of hair above her perfectly circular eyes formed a quasi-eyebrow, offering her expression: seemingly curious.

She saw with infinite wisdom. Her eyes told tales of droughts, floods, sisterhood, dynamic seasons, and an intricate life. She knew this land. And she was proud of it.

Ⅱ. "A growl erupted from the darkness. A god's voice… Every fiber in my body understood the command in that growl: don't move." -Paul Rolios, Mother of God

At some ungodly hour between dusk and dawn the baboons began to riot. I woke up with a jolt. Over three hundred primates were going mad. Their screams rumbled around me, followed by their thunderous gallops. It sounded like they all fled the scene. Strange, for baboons to be so active at night.

I wasn't the only one awakened by baboons. Birds, impala, and puku all gave their warning calls. I heard them darting away too.

Just as suddenly as the antics started, silence fell once again. It was quiet, too quiet. No birds were singing. No frogs peeped. Even the crickets stopped chirping. I was about to fall back asleep, that's when I heard--

Meow.

Perhaps it was just a serval, a small African cat that hunts hares and rodents. I closed my eyes.

It was followed by the deep, guttural rumbling of a big cat. My hair stood on end. That tiny, angelic meow belonged to a leopard cub. Its mother circled my tent.

Fear suffocated me. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move. It felt like my heart stopped beating altogether. So this is who the baboons were running away from...

Sniff

The canvas shook as her nose brushed against it. I could almost feel her breath on the back of my neck. Could she hear me? My heartbeat? Time seemed to stop. I didn't dare move to check what hour it was. I was stuck in a fetal position, frozen as directed by instincts. As if my cells were trying to vanish into thin air.

The only thing between me and the beast was a flimsy piece of canvas. She must have smelled my fear. The cub was playing in some leaves, careless to all else going on. I don't know how much time passed, but eventually she walked away. Her cub followed noisily behind her.

Adrenaline was coursing through my veins. There was no chance of falling back asleep that night. Some time after the leopard vanished I heard the familiar whinny of zebra. Hippos even walked by. I could hear their grunts and imagined their little beady eyes and stumpy legs marching past. I heard puku, warthogs, and an endless symphony of songbirds.

My tent was situated beneath a massive tree. Seeds, leaves, and tiny flowers fell onto the roof. This became a buffet for elephants.

I could see the tent fold as their trunks delicately picked up vegetation. I could hear their massive molars chewing. The sound of flapping ears was followed by gushes of wind strong enough to billow my tent’s canvas. They rumbled to one another. Their communications were so loud it shook my tent, my bones, my soul.

Ⅲ. “And the wild things roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws.” -Maurice Sendak, Where the Wild Things Are

Atop an open safari vehicle I scanned ghostly terrain. I was deep in the Zambian wilds. Life was about to shake me to my core, but I gazed happily into the bush, perfectly oblivious about what was coming.

These golden cats, rulers of their ecosystem, spend most of their time sleeping, grooming, and sunbathing. But this pride wasn't behaving like the ones I saw before. That morning, there were six lionesses and not a single one was lounging.

Each lioness was hiding in the grass. Hunched shoulders drew the cats closer to the ground. I could see them carefully sniffing the wind. Their faces were alert. All eyes locked on the same target- three zebras in the ravine.

Black and white stripes blazed against the land, a display of natural surrealism. The zebras gulped water with ignorant bliss. Hiding above them was a coordinated group of fierce predators, desperately hungry, but the zebras had no idea.

We fell dead silent, waiting for a drama to unfold, a story as old as time.

The lionesses got into formation. One female moved away from the others. She walked so close to the vehicle I could hear her breath, whiskers brushing against the 4x4s steel frame. She crawled low against the ground, disappearing into a sea of golden grass.

The two older zebras finished drinking and walked up the ravine. They were both adults, leaving behind a young zebra who was still in the shallow water.

As soon as the two adults reached the top of the bank, a lioness pounced. In a flurry of madness the zebras kicked and darted away. The cats were left with empty stomachs in a cloud of dust.

Meanwhile at the river bank, the young zebra jolted, mid gulp.

The distressed animal began pacing. It was a sub-adult, about three years old. That’s just old enough to go out on its own. It contemplated walking along the river bank, where crocodiles may strike in deeper areas, or following its mom to see where she went. After serious deliberation, the young zebra walked out of the ravine, following the scent of its mother. Right into a trap.

One lioness leaped from the grass onto the hind of the young zebra. She flew through the air, like a missile, claws outstretched. I could tell she didn't want to miss another kill. She dug into its hide. The zebra ran across the clearing. Right towards the hiding lioness. She helped her sister bring down the zebra. It was a coordinated attack.

Two male lions materialized in the blink of an eye.

Eight cats were on top of the zebra, ripping it to shreds. Its black and white body became stained red. The poor zebra was still alive. He was kicking, but his hooves didn't deter the lions for a moment. I don’t even think they noticed. They continued slurping his guts. He was screaming, but his whinnies were drowned by the thunderous roars. His eyes seemed ready to burst from his head, open wide, blind from pain. Soon we could smell the zebra’s pungent intestines. Surely, so could the young zebra.

The poor, young zebra lifted its head and bit a chunk of hair out of one of the male's manes. It was a final attempt to escape, even though much of its body was already being digested. A lioness saw the zebra’s futile bite, went for the foal's throat, and stopped its suffering.

Eventually all the lions walked away to clean up their paws and soak up the sun, except for the biggest male. He was left to devour the young zebra. Exposed ribs, black and white fur, and a tattered body were clinging to the dead animal’s spine. He dragged it across the ground. Drool dripped onto the zebra’s face, where eyeballs and chunks of flesh were missing. I felt like I was staring straight into Hell, something no living soul should ever see.

Back in the ravine zebras were gathering. They had wide eyes and made troubled calls. Each zebra would stop pacing for a moment to stare at the kill, then they would huff and return to pacing.

We realized the mother, who just escaped the lions herself, was there.

The coffee tasted especially bitter.