Hunting Grounds
by Day and by Night
A hundred and fifty feet away from us a bull wildebeest galloped, a dark shape against
the pale moonlit grass of the African plain. Behind him raced five hyenas, and every
moment the gap between the hunted and the hunters lessened. Suddenly the leading hyena
seized the wildebeest's tail in its mouth and a minute later the other four were leaping
up to bite at the flanks and legs of the victim. Turning swiftly, the bull faced his
tormentors, sweeping the darkness with his curved horns, tossing his head. But
now more hyenas were appearing out of the night, and within two minutes the wildebeest was
down, all but invisible beneath ten or more growling shapes that fought for his flesh.
Hugo drove the car closer to the kill. As he switched on the headlights some of the
hunters looked up at us from the feast, their eyes shining, their necks and faces red with
blood. Twenty minutes later only a dark trampled patch on the ground remained to tell the
story of that moonlit struggle.
That was the first hyena hunt that Hugo and I watched and we were horrified to see, for
ourselves, how they ate their prey alive. Since that night we have seen the same gory
drama enacted time and time again, for Cape hunting dogs, commonly known as wild dogs, and
jackals also kill by this method of rapid disembowelment. We still hate to watch it and
yet, though it seems longer at the time, the victim is usually dead within a couple of
minutes and Undoubtedly in such a severe state of shock that it cannot feel much pain.
Indeed, lions, leopards and cheetas, which have the reputation of being 'clean killers'
often take ten minutes or more to suffocate their victims, and who are we
to judge which is the more painful way to die. And so we do not join the ranks of those
who condemn hyenas and wild dogs as vicious brutes that should be ruthlessly exterminated,
for they kill in order to eat and to live in the only way for which evolution has fitted
them.
It is, in fact, only man who kills with complete awareness of the suffering he may
inflict; only man, therefore, who can be guilty of deliberate torture. The history of
mankind, if one pauses to think back over the years, is lurid with the so-called inhuman
acts of humans and, indeed, the infliction of torture seems to be part of man's heritage.
Torture of men and animals alike. And man, it seems, has always been fascinated, in some
way, by suffering and death.
Perhaps it is no coincidence that so many observations of Africa's animal killers, the
carnivores, are related to their predatory behaviour, particularly to their killing
techniques. Hugo and I, however, are interested in more than this. We chose to study them
not because they kill but because they are intelligent animals with a fascinating social
life. We had watched them and talked about them for years before we started full-time
research into their behaviour.
Hugo actually chose photography as a career because he realised that it would enable
him to work with animals. When he took his first photograph he knew nothing at all about
cameras. He and two friends were touring a National Park in Holland when they came upon a
group of shy moufflon sheep introduced from abroad. All three boys wanted to get a
photograph. Hugo's companions knew something about cameras - but it was Hugo who knew most
about animals. Pushing a camera into his hands, one of his friends told him that diaphragm
and distance were pre-set, and that if he could creep to a certain tree all that he had to
do was press the button. Hugo took the camera and got his picture. Since then he has
developed his talent by trying to photograph animals in action; animals playing and
fighting, chasing and being chased, grooming each other and courting each other, feeding
and defending their young.
Like Hugo, I began my own work, the study of animal behaviour, in a most unprofessional
way. In 1960 Dr L. S. B. Leakey, the well-known palaeontologist who has unearthed so many
clues to man's own origins, offered me the chance to study the behaviour of a group of
wild chimpanzees at the Gombe Stream Reserve (now (Gombe National Park). I accepted
eagerly although my only qualification at that time was a lifelong interest in wild
animals, particularly those in Africa. From the age of eight I had read books on natural
history and made my own notes on the behaviour of birds, animals and insects in the area
surrounding my home in the south of England. Eventually, although I had never sat for a
B.A. examination, I was able to collect enough new information on chimpanzee behaviour to
be admitted to Cambridge University to write a Ph.D. thesis.
It was at the Gombe Stream, amongst the chimpanzees, that Hugo and I first got to know
each other. It did not take me long to realise that Hugo was no ordinary wild life
photographer, but a man who loved and understood animals, a kindred spirit. Dr Leakey had
known us both long before we met each other. It did not surprise either of us when we
learned, afterwards, that he had written to my mother, before Hugo joined me at the Gombe,
to say that he had not only found a young man capable of photographing Jane's chimpanzees,
but one who would also make a very good husband for Jane!
After we were married we continued to work together for a year at the Gombe Stream,
Hugo collecting an invaluable scientific film record of chimpanzee behaviour under the
auspices of the National Geographic Society, which had financed the entire project almost
from the beginning. After this it was no longer practical for the Society to support a
professional photographer full-time at the chimpanzee camp and they assigned Hugo to
photographing animals in East Africa's various National Parks and Game Reserves.
Hugo and I were determined to stay together; we were equally determined that the
research into chimpanzee behaviour should go on. We built up facilities for a team of
students to continue working at the Gombe Stream, under our overall supervision, and every
year tried to spend a few months ourselves working with the chimpanzees. Today the Gombe
Stream Research Centre is one of the few places in the world devoted to long-term research
into the social behaviour of one group of wild animals.
When I started to travel with Hugo on his photographic assignment I became more and
more aware of the importance, for myself, of studying animals other than chimpanzees. The
more I watched the creatures of the Serengeti and other National Parks, the more my own
knowledge of chimpanzee behaviour was put into perspective. At the beginning of this phase
in our lives, for instance, we made the exciting discovery that the small white Egyptian
vulture is one of the few creatures, other than man, to use tools in the wild. At the
Gombe Stream some of my most interesting observations had been concerned with the wide
variety of purposes for which wild chimpanzees use objects as tools - grasses and sticks
for feeding on termites and ants, crumpled leaves as sponges for sopping up water they
cannot reach with their lips, leaves for wiping dirt from their bodies, stones and sticks
as missiles to throw at either baboons or humans. And now, no sooner had we left the Gombe
than we discovered a new tool-user.
We were driving along in the Land-Rover over ground that was black with the aftermath
of a grass fire. In places fallen trees still smouldered, sending small curls of smoke
into the heat of midday. We had the countryside to ourselves for most of the tourists were
having their lunch. Suddenly Hugo spotted some vultures plum meting from the sky in the
far distance and we drove quickly over to see what was going on. We found a deserted
ostrich nest; some fifteen eggs were scattered about on the ground surrounded by a throng
of squabbling vultures. The flames, presumably, had driven the sitting bird from the nest,
but miraculously the eggs were scarcely even singed. One hyena ran off as we arrived, and
we supposed that the egg over which the vultures were squabbling had been broken open by
him. But as we watched, we saw one of the two Egyptian vultures present pick up a stone in
his beak and walk over to a nearby egg. Then he raised his head and, with a forceful
downward movement, threw the stone at the thick white shell We could hear the impact. Then
he picked up the stone and threw it again and again until the shell was cracked and the
contents spilled over on to the ground.
For the next fifteen minutes we watched the two Egyptian vultures opening egg after
egg, only to be chased off by the larger vulture species before they had time for more
than a beakful of egg. We couldn't speak to each other for Hugo was taking pictures, and I
was frantically recording the behaviour on my tape-recorder. Afterwards, when the two
tool-users had managed to get enough to eat and had flown away, we stayed watching the
other vultures. But though they again and again clawed and pecked at the remaining few
eggs, they were completely unsuccessful in opening any and finally gave up and flew away.
Prior to this observation only four creatures had been reported as frequent users of
objects as tools in the wild. Two of these were mammals, the chimpanzee and the
Californian sea otter. The latter holds shellfish in his paws and cracks them against a
stone 'anvil' which he carries up from the sea-bed and lays on his chest whilst floating
on his back in the water. The other two were birds, the Galapagos woodpecker finch, which
probes insects from crannies in the bark with a cactus spine held in its beak, and the
satin bower bird which uses a wad of bark whilst painting its bower with charcoal during
courtship.
Hugo and I did a number of tests on Egyptian vultures in different areas and found that
in each place they knew how to throw stones. We tested them with smaller eggs too, and
found that, rather than break these with stones, they picked up the eggs themselves and
threw them against the ground. This, we feel sure, is the behaviour pattern from which the
stone-throwing technique has been derived.
Because of our interest in tool-using behaviour, we wondered whether any other animals,
with mouths too small to crush the shell of an ostrich egg, would be able to cope with the
situation. So far, of the creatures we have tested, only the banded mongoose has managed
to solve the problem. And as yet we have not been able to test these mongooses in the wild
possibly our scent on the egg has scared them away. The two tame individuals, however,
both of which were caught as youngsters, first tried to throw the egg between their legs
against a rock (their normal method of opening small eggs) and then threw stones between
their legs at the ostrich egg. Like the Egyptian vulture, the mongoose made use of a
behaviour pattern already available to it.
Our new observation on Egyptian vultures was but one indication to us of how little was
known about the behaviour of many of Africa's wild creatures. Since then, of course,
research into animal behaviour has flourished in East Africa and more and more studies on
different species have been started. Many such studies, however, have been concerned with
the ecology of the animal concerned, and deal with very large numbers over wide areas. The
Serengeti Research Institute, based at Seronera in the Serengeti National Park, has been
set up - thanks to the efforts of John Owen, Director of Tanzania National Parks - for
this type of research. The combined results of the scientists working there will, in a few
years' time, present an invaluable picture of the total ecology of this most famous of all
East African parks.
Hugo and I, however, are, and always have been, interested most of all in the social
behaviour of individuals within a species. To get good data and photographs on social
interactions and the various aspects of individual animals' lives, it is necessary to
spend long periods of time watching one family or group. The first step, of course, is to
try and get them used to the presence of human observers - not always as simple as it
might seem. For, in order to achieve success, it is sometimes necessary to develop an
awareness for the feelings of the animals you are watching. I had already learnt this at
the Gombe Stream, for the fact that the chimps had accepted my presence did not mean that
they would necessarily tolerate my following them about for long periods of time. After
one or more hours, depending on the individual, the chimpanzee might suddenly start to
walk faster, looking back over his shoulder at me. This was the signal for me to leave him
to his own devices.
One student provided us with an excellent example of what may happen if you push too
far an animal's newly gained acceptance of a human. The animals he was studying were very
tolerant of him when he started his research, and within a couple of weeks he was able to
make observations from a distance of a few yards. Over-confident, he kept with them for
hours at a time, following them each time they moved from place to place. Gradually the
animals became worried until, two months later, they would not allow him anywhere near
them. It took another three or four months of patience before he was able to approach them
as closely as he had during the second week of the study.
Hugo and I spent some months watching bat-eared foxes, small dainty creatures,
fawn-coloured with large dark ears, dark legs, and dark tips to their muzzles and tails.
Sometimes these foxes will at first tolerate a car closely approaching their den, but it
is important not to watch them for very long periods to begin with. If you do they will
simply curl up and go to sleep. Most people would take this to indicate that the foxes are
completely at ease, but, in fact, it usually means that they are uneasy and under stress.
The behaviour can be compared to that of the fabled ostrich hiding his head in the sand,
and it is, in fact, not uncommon in the animal world. A young captive chimpanzee,
presented with a test which it cannot accomplish, when it is frightened and in strange
surroundings, may simply curl up and go to sleep on the bare floor. Gavin Maxwell, in his
well-known book, Ring of Bright Water, comments on the phenomenon. His
tame otter, when forced to travel in cars, which he hated, would, after a few moments of
frenzy, 'curl himself into a tight ball and banish entirely the distasteful world about
him'. The same author observed, on different occasions, an arctic fox, a badger and a
common house mouse, all of which had gone into a deep sleep, almost a coma, when trapped.
There are actually cases of soldiers, in war time, who have gone to sleep under dangerous
conditions - when, for example, surrounded by flying shrapnel and bullets. In a different
situation, but also as an 'escape' mechanism, I used to curl up and all but sleep during
rain Storms at the Gombe when I was caught without a coat, and when the strong wind from
the mountain peaks made it seem freezing in that normally tropical environment.
Hugo and I got to know the individual members of one family of bat-eared foxes pretty
well. There were three adults at the den, two of which were females, and five cubs. The
different foxes looked very much alike, but at last I found I could distinguish them by
the pigmentation pattern of the muzzle, and soon we realised that the five cubs were the
progeny of both females. After suckling from one mother they would all rush over and
suckle from the other. As the cubs grew older they gradually accompanied the adults
farther and farther from the den on insect-hunting forays. One day we saw the entire
family, adults and cubs alike, playing with a fully grown male Thompson's gazelle. like
streaks of lightning, the foxes darted towards him and then raced round and round, sometimes
circling the gazelle, sometimes running in the other direction. With their tails arched
upwards, or undulating behind them, they reminded us of a shoal of swift-moving fishes.
The gazelle seemed to enter wholeheartedly into the spirit of the game, for he spun round,
tossing his spiked horns, pirouetting as he wheeled to face first one and then another
section of the moving ring of foxes that surrounded him. A few times he playfully ran
towards one of the foxes which streaked away only to turn and once more race around him.
We saw the foxes playing with other gazelles after that, but never with one that joined in
with the verve of that first male.
Thompson's gazelles, which occur in thousands on the Serengeti, are one of our
favourite animals of the plain. This gazelle, which stands just over two feet high, is a
beautiful animal, golden russet above and white below, with a vivid black stripe along
each side of its body. As these gazelles stand and graze, their short tails constantly
flicker from side to side, and young adults of either sex are always breaking off from the
routine of feeding to play with each other, chasing round in wide circles at incredible
speed, or sometimes, if they are males, jousting with their graceful slightly curved
horns. It always seems to us that these gazelles actually play with cars, for they will
race along beside the road at the same speed as you and then, suddenly putting on a
tremendous spurt, leap across ahead of you.
When you see an adult male putting all his speed into an attempt to catch up with a
flirtatious female, they appear literally to fly across the ground, and their sudden
changes of direction are so fast that often your eyes are left momentarily following the
original course. It seems that they must move faster than the fastest predator.
Nevertheless, they are a favoured prey of wild dogs and cheetas on the open plains, and
when they are grazing amongst trees and bushes they are successfully stalked by lions and
leopards. During the gazelle birth season an exceptionally heavy toll is taken of pregnant
females, especially females actually giving birth, and their fawns.
For the first days of its life, a Thompson's gazelle fawn will try to escape detection
by remaining pressed close to the ground at the approach of a potential predator, whilst
the mother runs off to return later. The coat of a youngster is much darker than that of
an adult, and the camouflage is superb - many a time we have all but driven over a fawn so
well does its colouring blend into that of the plains. Despite this, however, countless
numbers of these enchanting youngsters, reminding me of miniature Bambis, are destined to
die soon after birth. Leopards, cheetas, wild dogs, hyenas and jackals are their chief
dangers, but a lion will make a snack of one if he comes across it, and they are also
preyed upon by baboons, the larger birds of prey, servals and caracals, the jackal- sized
lynxes of East Africa.
The mother gazelle will chase these smaller predators again and again in defence of her
young. We watched one female chase a male baboon, who had seized her fawn, for at least
two hundred yards until he was able to leap out of her reach into a tree. Another mother
charged a huge Martial eagle every time it swooped down near her motionless fawn until,
finally, the bird gave up and flew away. And another time we saw a female drive off a
long-legged secretary bird, racing after it as it flew low over the ground and then
charging as it landed so that it was forced to take to the air again. Often smaller birds
of prey that land too close to a fawn will he chased away, as though the sight of any
curved beak and talons too close to her young triggers off the mother's
defensive mechanism.
It seems strange that the female Thompson's gazelle is in the evolutionary process of
losing her horns. That is why you so often see a female with crossed horns, one horn
sticking forwards or backwards, one horn missing, or even no horns at all. Certainly we
have never seen a predator injured by a mother gazelle's horns but jackals and birds of
prey show respect for these sharp little spikes, and it is difficult to imagine what
adaptive value can lie in their gradual loss.
The wildebeest has always been another of my favourite animals. With his long-shaped
narrow face and crown of upcurved horns, his fringe of pale hair from chin to chest and
his limp black mane, he presents a clownish appearance that is often matched by his
behaviour. I never tire of watching the mock-fighting of the bulls before the start of the
short annual rutting season. Often you can trigger off such a fight simply by driving past
two bulls grazing peacefully side by side. As you approach they suddenly leap around to
face each other, tossing their heads and, perhaps, pawing at the ground with one foreleg.
One or both may drop to his knees and rub first one and then the other horn in the dirt,
after which they usually stand again, facing each other and looking quite peaceful until,
as at some prearranged signal, they lunge towards each other, dropping on their knees to
the ground and bringing their horns together with a loud clash. The bout may end quickly,
or it may be prolonged, with the stronger moving forward on his knees, the loser backing
away until he can take no more, then jumping to his feet and running off. Sometimes the
victor trots after him, taking long strides with stiffly extended legs and seeming almost
to hover in mid-air between each step.
When a wildebeest is in particularly high spirits he may, for no apparent reason,
suddenly start to gallop and buck his way through the herd, tossing his head and kicking
his hind legs in the air. Often another bull will give chase, and this may end in a mock
battle. Best of all for entertainment value is to watch one of these bulls when he
pirouettes around his 'rival', leaping high off the ground as he turns grotesquely in the
air like some clown pretending to demonstrate ballet.
In the rutting season the bulls fight more seriously each trying to twist the other's
neck and throw its opponent off balance. But we have never seen either of the combatants
with a more serious injury than a slight skin wound on the head or neck at the end of such
a battle
One of the tragedies of the wildebeest world is that during the birth season - usually
between December and February on the Serengeti - so many calves in the big herds get lost.
It only needs one predator, chasing one calf or adult, to set the whole herd running.
Indeed, tourist cars, driving too fast, or low-flying planes, can have the same effect.
And then, when things have calmed down again, you are almost certain to see several calves
wandering about looking for their mothers. Some are lucky and become re united, but others
are less fortunate, particularly in the huge concentrations of wildebeests that yearly
trek across the plains of the Serengeti. As the minutes and then the hours go by the
bleating of a lost calf becomes more insistent, and again and again it will approach
different cows, nosing into their groins as it tries to suckle. But it is rare indeed for
a female to accept a calf other than her own, even if she has lost a calf herself and has
udders bursting with milk. The following day the bleats of the orphan are fainter, and on
the third or fourth day it will lie down to die - if, indeed, it has managed to escape its
enemies for so long.
It is not unusual to see a lost calf wandering about at some distance from the herd,
and such a youngster often tries to adopt almost any moving object. Hugo and I saw one
such calf that kept approaching four hyenas. Each time it got within thirty feet or so,
the hyenas started towards it and then, as some instinct asserted itself, the calf ran off
a short distance. The hyenas, obviously, were riot hungry, for when the calf ran, they
stopped following. And then the calf turned and once again approached them. It was a
nerve-racking situation, and presently we drove a little closer. The calf suddenly became
aware of our moving car and, bleating loudly, came towards us. If we moved, it followed.
This is, in fact, a fairly common situation - I always wish it was possible to set up a
huge orphanage for these abandoned youngsters, for it seems utterly heartless to drive
away and leave them to their fate.
On that occasion Hugo and I, who did not at that time realise that it was extremely
unlikely that a foster-mother would adopt the calf, decided to try and lead it back to its
herd. But there were three herds visible, one about five hundred yards to the south, the
other two slightly farther away to the north and east. Which one should we choose. Finally
we decided on the nearest and set off towards it. The calf followed and soon we were
within fifty yards. When the youngster saw the other wildebeests it started towards them,
bleating. The herd was facing us, as though watching, and suddenly a cow came running
towards us, calling loudly. The calf galloped up to her and they nosed each other for a
moment before the cow turned and, closely followed by the calf, moved back and was lost to
sight in the milling herd. Had we been incredibly lucky and managed to restore the lost
calf to its rightful mother? Or had we witnessed one of the rare adoptions? We shall never
know, but the cow's behaviour suggested that she was, indeed, the mother, and we drove
away feeling pleased.
It was just after that, however, that an incident occurred with a very different
ending. We were driving along near the Seronera River when suddenly, round a sharp bend,
we came upon a zebra mare who had just given birth. As she saw us she scrambled to her
feet and ran off, leaving the foal struggling on the ground. quickly Hugo reversed and we
drove off a hundred yards or so. We saw the foal manage to stand up, tottering, and free
itself of the birth sac. But the mare, who had joined a small group of zebras standing
some sixty yards away, made no move to return. We drove off even farther, to a point
where, with binoculars, we could just see the foal, but the mother, after ten minutes or
so, turned round and wandered right away. We were, and still are, puzzled by her
behaviour. Possibly it was her first foal and we had disturbed her before she had licked
the birth fluids which, according to some scientists, is an important step in establishing
the mother's attachment to her young.
Hoping that the mother might return, we drove away, but when we returned, four hours
later, the foal was still on its own. It had 'adopted' a fallen tree and, every so often,
tried to suckle on a small projection under the trunk. We saw many zebras pass by, but the
foal left its tree 'mother' for none of them. As darkness fell we left it there, still
trying to suckle, and I must confess that neither Hugo nor I slept much that night. In the
morning the foal's body was being eaten by two male lions, and we could only hope that its
death had been quick and painless.
Under normal circumstances the zebra is born into a tight-knit family group - a
stallion with his mares and some of their progeny. Unlike a male gazelle or wildebeest, a
zebra stallion will try actively to defend his group from predators such as hyenas and
wild dogs. Moreover, if one family group is chased, particularly at night, it usually
joins up with other groups, until two hundred zebras or more form a united group, many of
the stallions staying in the rear and viciously kicking or biting at the predators. This
means that, on many occasions, the selected victim, usually a mare or foal, escapes with
its life.
In another respect too, the zebras demonstrate a well-developed social co-ordination,
which enables all members of the group to sleep soundly for at least part of the night.
Hans Klingel and his wife, who studied zebras for seven years, found that the members of
one or more families will lie close together. Whilst most of them sleep, some stand guard
and quickly alert their sleeping companions should a predator appear on the scene. We
watched one such group on a moonlit night and were impressed by the obvious alertness of
the sentinel, and the apparently relaxed slumber of the others. We were again struck by
the effectiveness of the zebra's stripes as camouflage in the moonlight. On the open
plains, in day- time, the zebra stands out clearly, but at dawn or dusk, or when the moon
is shining, he becomes almost invisible - in sharp contrast to the conspicuous black hulk
of the wildebeest in dim light.
Possibly it is because zebras are able to sleep so soundly at night that you sometimes
find one in the daytime stretched out still sound asleep. So sound asleep, indeed, that,
on two occasions, we presumed they were dead, for the rest of the herd had galloped
noisily away, leaving them motionless on the ground. Only when we got to within a couple
of yards did the zebras suddenly scramble to their feet, look around wildly, and gallop
after their companions. In the daytime, when sleeping is an individual rather than a group
activity, we have not seen sentinels; and perhaps a special signal, given by the
sentinels, is necessary to rouse a zebra easily from a deep sleep.
During those two years Hugo and I gradually became more and more interested in the
carnivores. We were interested in hunting techniques because I had found that, in the
Gombe Stream area anyway, the chimpanzees were efficient hunters and killers of quite
large mammals, such as young bushbucks and monkeys. And we were interested in the
scavengers, the hyena and the jackal, because many people believe that prehistoric man was
a scavenger before he was a hunter. The Gombe Stream chimpanzees will not touch animal
flesh unless it has been killed by a group member and, when these apes set out hunting,
they are often extremely successful. Now, with the panorama of predator, prey and
scavenger spread before us, Hugo and I tried to imagine prehistoric man, whose behaviour
might well have been similar, in some ways, to that of the chimpanzees, surviving as a
scavenger. For several reasons we found it difficult to believe.
Let me present a general picture of some of the problems which face the hyena and
jackals to-day in their scavenging activities. Food which may be scavenged consists of the
carcasses of animals which have died a natural death, the remains of the prey of
carnivores or offal and so forth around human settlements. One problem for the scavenger
is to find such food, which he may do by sight, hearing or smell; a second, if the real
killer is still finishing his meal, is to get a share without being hurt; a third is to
get there quickly before too many other scavenging competitors have arrived at the scene.
And I should say here that scavenging is by no means confined to hyenas and jackals.
Lions, leopards, cheetas and wild dogs, as well as many of the smaller carnivores, will
feed readily from carrion or try to appropriate the prey of smaller predators.
The hyena is, in many ways, well adapted for a scavenging role. He has enormously
strong teeth and jaws, and when, as is so often the case, little remains of the prey
animal, is able to chew and digest extremely large bones and tough hide. In addition, he
has most sensitive ears and can accurately locate from far away sounds made by other
carnivores as they squabble at a kill. He can run at thirty m.p.h. or faster and he has
great stamina. He also has patience; a group of hyenas will hang around a lion kill for
eight hours, or maybe longer, when they must know from experience that little will be left
of the carcass when the killers finally move away.
The jackal also has good hearing, but his chief asset appears to be his speed, which
enables him to dart in and seize pieces of meat from under the very nose of a lion or
other large predator with little risk of being caught. However, neither the hyena nor the
jackal is purely a scavenger, except in some areas, around the habitation of man, where
most wild animals have been exterminated and a hyena may exist almost entirely on offal,
and so forth. In the crater and on the Serengeti the hyena is an efficient hunter and
killer in his own right, and the jackal spends a far greater proportion of his time
hunting insects and rodents than in scavenging.
It is only the winged scavengers, the vultures, the Marabou storks, and some of the
eagles, that can be considered really efficient. Not only are they able to cover large
distances through the air with relatively little effort, but they can maintain vantage
points up in the sky which enable them to encompass, with their keen eyesight, large areas
of the surrounding countryside. Once they have spotted a dead animal or a predator on its
kill, their wings enable them to reach the spot much faster than any four-footed mammal.
Indeed, it is by closely watching the movement of vultures in the sky that many
earth-bound predators are directed to new sources of food.
Now let us consider early man in the role of a scavenger. He may have been a reasonably
fast runner, although, as he had not long adopted an upright posture, we cannot be sure.
Undoubtedly he had good powers of endurance, but even though his ears were certainly much
sharper than those of man to-day, at least of 'civilised' man, it is most unlikely that
they were as sensitive as those of jackals or hyenas. Early man, of course, would have
been able to watch the sky for the tell-tale movement of vultures, and could have run to
the scene of the kill along with the other scavengers. If he had found only vultures, or
perhaps a couple of cheetas or hyenas - or even a single lion - he might have been able to
drive them from their meal and appropriate it for himself. But in those early days when
man became a flesh eater, his weapons were probably nothing more than rocks, such as the
chimpanzee throws to-day. It is unlikely that-a small group of men (and it is thought that
they did use to hunt in small groups) could have driven a pride of lions or a large group
of hyenas from their prey. If like the hyena to-day, man had had to wait until the hunter
itself had finished with its kill, he could, indeed, have cracked the bones and eaten the
marrow, but could he have digested hide, or bone itself, in the way the hyena can? It
seems unlikely.
Finally, man should be considered in the light of his primate origins. The chimpanzee,
as I have said, eats flesh - at some time of the year in fairly large amounts - but we
have never seen them scavenging. Baboons also eat meat in many places, and may
occasionally try to snatch a share from the chimpanzees. But, if they scavenge, it must be
rarely indeed. We have seen countless kills within range of a number of different baboon
troops, and never have baboons formed part of the attendant scavenger group. Moreover,
primates are, with very few exceptions, strictly diurnal and afraid to move about after
dark. Yet it is during the night that a high percentage of kills are made, and it is at
this time that the hyena and the jackal get the most out of scavenging - when primitive
men would, undoubtedly, have been huddled together asleep.
I am not trying to say that early man never scavenged. Man is, and undoubtedly always
has been, an opportunist. Of course, to supplement his newly acquired taste for meat, -
these stone-age men would have scavenged when the reward was worth it and the risks not
too great. We think, however, that it is more likely that man acquired his taste for
flesh, like the chimpanzee and the baboon, by hunting small creatures for himself. During
the birth season calves and fawns are easy prey if the hunter can manage to outwit the
mothers. We have seen adult animals so injured that a group of early men would have had
little difficulty in overcoming them.
This, then, initially pinpointed our attention on the behaviour of the larger
carnivores. Soon, however, we became fascinated more by the animals themselves, by their
individual characters, their obvious intelligence. We found that it was often possible to
recognise individuals not only from their colouring patterns but also from traits in their
behavior. We always named animals that we were watching once we were certain that we knew
them. Some scientists maintain that it is more correct to identify animals by numbers
since we are basically concerned with differences between individuals, we found names more
satisfactory and equally scientific. I had done the same when I began studying chimpanzees
six years earlier.
When Hugo began to plan his long-term study on these carnivores, I never realised that
I should become seriously involved in the venture. My own work of analysing and writing up
my data on chimpanzee behaviour, together with looking after our newly born son, Hugo
junior, more commonly known as Grublin, would, I thought, take up all my time. Yet I think
that Hugo, right from the start, knew me well enough to be sure that, in the end, I would
join him. Our partnership is such that we work at everything in life together, from
writing books to putting nappies on our baby.
It did not take much to persuade me that hyenas are second only to chimpanzees in
fascination - they are born clowns, highly individualistic and live in an extremely
complex and well-ordered Society. But it was difficult for me to conceive, in those early
days, that I would be able to study them, handicapped as I was with a baby. Nor was it
easy when Grublin was small, but fortunately hyenas are most active during the hours of
darkness, and so, during the brilliant moonlight of the African nights, I was able to
spend many hours watching them whilst Grublin slept peacefully behind me on the big bed in
our Volkswagen bus.
I still remember. clearly the day we arrived at Ngorongoro Crater, in Tanzania, to
begin this work. We had left our house just outside Nairobi the day before and had spent
the night camping on the Serengeti plains. In the morning we started out on the last lap
of the three-hundred-mile journey. As we drove, in first gear, up the steep slopes of
Ngorongoro it grew colder and colder, and eventually we were driving through the thick
clouds that hung low over the mountain. When we reached the rim of the crater, or caldera
as it should be called, we stopped to give our nine-month-old son a drink. As soon as
Hugo switched off the engine we became part of the ghostly world through which we had been
driving. The white gently moving mist of the clouds closed around the car and all that we
could see were a few shrouded outlines of trees and the tall wet grasses at the side of
the track. On either side of us, we knew, the thickly forested slopes dropped down; on the
one hand to the rolling miles of the Serengeti plains, on the other to the deep basin of
the crater itself. The magnificence of the wild country that stretched out below was
completely hidden from us by the mist; had we been merely passing tourists we should have
missed for ever that fantastic view. Just as, had our lives run on different courses, we
should never have learned of the vivid personalities of Mrs Brown1 the old
hyena mother, or Jason the golden jackal, or Ghengis the leader of the wild dog pack. Yet
they, like the view, were there down below the cloud masses, living their lives, sleeping
and playing, hunting and killing, mating and giving birth to others of their kind.
Later, as we drove down to the floor of the crater, we left the dense clouds behind,
clustering around the rim, and through the thinning mist the green plain below us began to
appear. From that height the one hundred square miles of the crater floor seemed, as it
always does, quite empty of animal life. Nothing could be farther from the truth. The dark
masses of the wildebeest herds and the single black spots of solitary rhinos were the
first to stand out clearly from the background of the plains; then we made out groups of
zebras and finally the pale sandy-coloured herds of Grant's and Thompson's gazelles. Down
below us the small soda lake was fringed with the pale pink of the flamingoes that fed in
the shallows, and in the little Lerai forest behind the lake there were, we knew,
elephants and buffaloes, baboons and monkeys. Grazing the taller grass of the rolling
hilly country on the far side of the crater there would be more elephants and buffaloes
and huge herds of elands, Africa's largest antelopes. Hugo and I were setting out to study
carnivores, and down below us were carnivores of many species. In the actual basin of the
crater several prides of lions were resident, some of the males sporting the magnificent
black manes for which the lions of Serengeti are so famous. The spotted hyena is as
plentiful in the crater as anywhere in Africa - indeed, until a few years ago the Game
Wardens used to shoot fifty or more of them a year to keep the numbers down. To-day they
are no longer molested by man and, possibly because of the resulting increase in their
population, the smaller wild dogs and the cheetas which used to be found on the crater
plains have, for the most part, moved their hunting grounds elsewhere.
All three species of Africa's jackals can be found in the crater basin, the Asiatic or
golden jackal, the silverback or blackback jackal, and the rarely observed side-striped
jackal. The bat-eared fox, smaller than the European red fox and, in fact, not a true fox
at all, is plentiful on the plains, and the exquisitely beautiful serval, a jackal-sized
member of the cat family, frequents the tall grassland along the rivers and in the hills.
The leopard inhabits the forested Slopes, and occasionally can be seen in the crater basin
itself, and there are a number of the smaller carnivores in the forests and on the plains;
the East African wild cat, the civet, the dainty genet with its long banded tail, and
several types of mongoose.
We drove slowly to the log cabin at our camping place on the far side of the crater
plain. Everywhere the grass was lush, and we passed literally thousands of wildebeests. It
may seem strange, to some, that I write wildebeests, using the plural. Most people will
talk about a herd of wildebeest, or zebra, a pride of lion, and so forth. But to us, this
use of the singular suggests that the individuality of each animal in the group is being
ignored. It implies, to us, that every lion is just a lion. After all, who would dream of
talking about a boatload of Italian, a classroom of German, or even a gathering of man?
And so, quite deliberately, Hugo and I refer to a group of animals in the plural.
As we passed the herds our son got more and more excited, almost jumping out of the
window in his efforts to get closer to the animals. Occasionally a jackal pricked up its
ears to watch our approaching car before jumping up and running a short way from the
track. Once a fat ungainly hyena heaved herself from the muddy ditch by the side of the
track and loped off, looking back, hyena fashion, over her shoulder.
The cabin was 'home' as soon as we set foot inside it. Built under the shadow of a
giant fig tree, it is always cool, surrounded by dim green light, the twittering and
chirping of birds, and the constant babbling of a small muddy stream. This stream, known
somewhat grandly as the Munge River, has its source up beyond the rim of the crater, and
after winding its way down through the hilly country behind the cabin, goes chuckling
through the roots of the fig trees that mark its course until it empties into the crater's
lake. From the cabin the view, framed by the low hanging branches of the fig tree,
stretches across several miles of grass plains to the lake and the Lerai forest, behind
which the crater wall rises, cutting off the outside world. The cabin itself is a simple
one-roomed wooden building, with a few basic items of furniture - tables, shelves, a
cupboard and a large bed. The floor is stone, covered by rush matting, the windows are
small, the ceiling low. It was built for a student studying the crater's wildebeest herds,
and it is now loaned out, by the Ngorongoro Conservation Unit, to other scientists who
want to work in the crater.
A few yards away from the cabin is a tiny bamboo-walled hut which serves as a kitchen,
although most of the actual cooking was done by our two African servants on an open wood
fire outside.
During our stay at the crater the cabin served principally as a safe nursery for
Grublin. Hugo and I slept there with him, and we erected a number of tents in which to
work, eat and so on. Grublin played in the cabin during the daytime, with one of us in
constant attendance or, if we were all sitting in the 'dining-room' tent over-looking the
plains, he came and crawled around amongst us.
'Surely you are not going to take a baby into the wilds with you ?' many of our friends
had asked, after Grublin's birth. 'You'll have to change your way of life a bit now, won't
you?' said others, with a laugh. But Hugo and I had decided, before the baby was born,
that if we could help it we would not allow his arrival to change our life together. Hugo
is a wild life photographer and naturalist and so must spend long periods of time in the
bush; both of us feel that, whenever it is possible, a husband and wife should be
together. When we arrived at the crater Grublin had already spent five of his nine months
of life with us in the bush, and it would have been hard to find a healthier, happier
baby.
We took precautions, of course. We had with us a radio telephone and could, at any
time, ring through to Nairobi. This meant that if Grublin, or any of us for that matter,
fell ill or had a bad accident, we could either contact the flying doctor service or
charter a light aircraft to fly us to hospital. Whilst we were camped at the crater we
never left Grublin alone except when he was sound asleep in the safety of the cabin, and
we had a baby alarm set up in the dining-room tent and the working or office tent so that
one of us would be sure to hear his first waking sounds. As an added safety measure we put
a wire-netting enclosure round the cabin so that, in the unlikely event of his eluding us
for a few minutes, he could not stray away.
For about two months during that visit the fig trees were laden with red fruit and,
once a day, a troop of baboons came to feast above the cabin. We had to be very careful to
keep Grublin inside then, for the big males were insolent fellows and often sat around on
the ground eating windfalls and paying scant attention to our presence. On one occasion
our tall African cook, Moro, of the Luo tribe, had a narrow escape when a male baboon,
which had been fighting with another in the lower branches of the tree, fell heavily,
missing him by a matter of inches. Had he been hit the force of the impact would have
killed him and, even if it hadn't, the baboon, terrified at the close contact with a man,
might well have attacked. The baboon has huge canine teeth and can inflict just as much
damage as a leopard. There were, of course, other hazards, not dangerous but unpleasant
and smelly, to beset the unwary person who walked beneath the tree when the baboons were
feeding overhead.
By far the most dangerous aspect of the Munge camp was the fact that wild animals could
approach closely without our knowledge because of the dense vegetation that grows along
the river banks. One morning, for instance, Hugo noticed a male lion strolling into the
fifteen-foot high undergrowth near the dining-room tent. We drove in with the Land-Rover
to try and move him on - and discovered six lionesses lying up there, as well as the male.
One of them was only about ten yards from the forty-four-gallon drum of petrol from which
Hugo and Moro had lust been filling the Land-Rover. We tried to drive them out, but they
only moved closer and closer to the stream where we could not follow with the car. For the
rest of that day, whilst Hugo was out on the plains, Grublin and I had to stay in the
cabin, whilst Moro and his assistant, Thomas, chose to remain up in the fig tree, keeping
a lookout until Hugo returned in the evening. By the next morning the lions had gone and
they did not return.
There was another incident when Hugo had a narrow escape. About fifteen yards behind
the cabin is a tiny bush lavatory, or 'Choo'. This is simply a hole in the ground with a
wooden box on top of it as a seat, surrounded by a ramshackle circular grass wall with a
gap on the far side serving as the entrance. On one side of the narrow path leading to the
choo is high undergrowth; on the other side is a steep drop to the stream. Hugo walked
blithely along the path and was just about to turn into the entrance when, almost
subconsciously, he became aware of something yellow through the dilapidated wall. He
paused for a moment, and that may have saved his life. There was a deafening roar and a
rending and crashing sound as some large animal broke through the wall on the other side
and forced its way through the undergrowth. Rushing back along the path, Hugo reached the
safety of the cabin and, looking out, saw a lioness standing staring back, her mouth
slightly open in a snarl and her tail lashing angrily from side to side. She must have
been lying up inside the choo; later we saw the great holes in the floor where her paws
had broken the ancient wooden boards as she took off to leap through the wall. Why was she
there? We soon realised when Hugo spotted the remains of her kill draped over the base of
a tree trunk at the edge of the stream, just below the choo. We dragged it away, for we
did not relish the idea of the lioness hanging around. That evening Grublin and I and the
two Africans watched when the huntress returned to finish off her kill. She stood looking
round, her tail lashing, for some ten minutes before stalking slowly past the cabin and
moving off to seek her dinner elsewhere.
But life on safari is very rarely spiced with drama of this sort. The hazards involved
are no greater than those which people in more civilised countries face every day when
they drive on the busy highways. We ourselves feel that, provided we never permit
ourselves to be lulled into a sense of false security and provided we are constantly alert
to the possibility of attack from a wild animal, Grublin will be as safe as if he were
brought up in an English town. We have never had cause to regret our decision to bring our
son up in the bush, to share with him some of the experiences we have in our work with
wild animals.
During our first months at Ngorongoro, Hugo's mother, known to us all as Moeza, came to
stay with us. She was of tremendous help in looking after Grublin. Nor did Hugo lack for
assistance, for at that time we had three students with us who had volunteered to help for
a while, Parker and Ben Gray and Patti Moehleman. Between them they put in hundreds of
hours of observation on the golden jackal family that Hugo was studying.
This study started off gloomily because the grass of the crater plains, normally a
couple of inches high at that time of year, was a foot high in many places. The jackal is
no bigger than a European red fox and this high grass would make photography and even
observation difficult. Miraculously, though, Hugo was lucky, and found a den in an area
where the grass was much shorter than in most places. True, there had been a few long
blades, most irritating to a photographer, but these were eliminated during the heat of
one midday when the four tumbling cubs were down their burrow, and Jason and Jewel, their
parents, were out hunting.
Our original plan had been to stay in the crater for about three months, move to the
Serengeti for a while to start our wild dog study and then return to Ngorongoro in
September to continue work on the jackals and do some intensive observation on the hyenas.
But Africa is still close enough to nature for even the best laid plans to be overthrown.
On this occasion it was the rain that lengthened our first visit to the crater into nearly
six months. The short rains, from November to January, had been unusually heavy; the long
rains, lasting until April or May, were even heavier. By the end of March the Munge River
had flooded several times and the level of the lake had risen dramatically. Over much of
the crater plains the sun glinted on to flood waters; it was quite impossible to move our
camp.
Hugo, Parker and Ben (for our third student helper had left us by this time) were often
hard put to it even to get to the jackal den, and spent many weary hours digging the car
out of one muddy pot hole after another. Indeed, for nearly a month we were completely cut
off from the outside world, for both routes to the crater rim were flooded. Had there been
an emergency we could have got out - but only by walking and leaving all our equipment
behind.
After the rains have stopped it is not long before the tropical sun begins to dry the
grass, particularly the short lush grass of the crater plains. Then many of the herbivores
move to graze the hilly country to the east of the crater basin. Usually the zebra herds
are the first to move because they are adapted for grazing long grass: they are followed
by the wildebeest, and when they, in turn, have grazed the grass shorter still, the herds
of Thompson's and Grant's gazelles move there to feed.
The animals of the crater are by no means confined within the bowl. Often whole herds
migrate, moving up the steep slopes of the wall in long lines, following well-worn animal
trails. The country beyond the crater comprises thick forest, mountain ranges and open
grassy plains, and is sparsely populated with nomadic groups of the Masai tribe. They are
a splendid people, upright of stature, with finely chiselled features, pale
coppery-coloured skin, and a tribal heritage that defies the softening influences of
Western civilisation. They roam the plains and mountain slopes, as their forbears have for
generations, grazing their herds of cattle, sheep and goats alongside the wild animals.
The Masai have a tradition of fearlessness which is well deserved. In the old days, before
it was forbidden by law, a Masai youth could not expect to marry until he had taken part
in a lion hunt, armed only with his spear and shield. Whilst the conservationist must
condemn this ancient custom, anyone who has seen a lion charge will recognise the almost
incredible bravery which must have been shown by the young men who attempted the feat.
Hugo and I have become friendly with a number of Masai warriors, and we have great
admiration for the tribe; as well as being fearless, they are friendly, generous and
gentle and loving with their children. Many of them, too, have a fund of knowledge about
the countryside and the wild animals, as one would expect of a people living so close to
nature, and we always make a point of driving to one of the villages, or manyattas, when
we are searching for rare animals in the vicinity. Often they have given us invaluable
information.
To the north-west of Ngorongoro the short grass plains stretch for hundreds of square
miles, gashed by the twenty-mile long Olduvai Gorge, made famous by the excavations of Dr
Leakey and his wife. There Zinjanthropus (nicknamed Nutcracker man) was found and,
later, Homo Habilis, fossilised along with his stone tools and the remains of the
animals which he hunted. Here, too, Dr Leakey uncovered the foundations of what was,
undoubtedly, one of the earliest walled huts built by man. Beyond Olduvai the plains
stretch on, scarcely a tree to be seen as the miles go by. Near the entrance to the famous
Serengeti National Park the short grass gradually gives place to longer, as the soil
changes in composition, but the plains still stretch ahead until, some sixty miles from
Ngorongoro, the Seronera River winds its way through the acacia trees of the Seronera
Valley.
The southern boundary of the Serengeti National Park makes a hairpin loop to include,
within the park, the small soda lake, Lake Legaja. It was here that we set up our second
'home' in the bush, a camp under shady acacia trees overlooking the water. The lake is
also known as Ndutu. Both names, in Masai, have a very similar and most delightful
meaning, implying that the place is a peaceful one, sacred to God, and should not be
desecrated by the noise of people. How one word can imply so much I cannot imagine, but
that is what we were told.
The lake lies within a thin band of acacia trees and thorn scrub beyond which the
windswept treeless plains stretch for miles. When we arrived at this new camp site to
start concentrated work on the wild dogs, it was February and the plains were thick with
the herds of the wildebeest and zebra migration. Nowhere in the world today can one see
wild animals in such teeming multitudes as on the Serengeti plains during the annual trek
of the herds across the newly-green countryside. The movement starts with the coming of
the rains: the herds, which have been scattered throughout the bush country to the north
and west of the park, close to permanent water, then congregate and, in a number of long
dense columns, gradually graze their way to the short grass plains where they remain to
calve and feed until the end of the rainy season. Then, as the surface water dries up, the
herds once again move back to the bush country and disperse. A total of more than a
million herbivores take part each year in this migration, of which half are Thompson's and
Grant's gazelles, some 350,000 are wildebeests and some 180,000 are zebras.
For a few weeks, while the herds remained in the vicinity of our camp, we lived our
lives to the constant accompaniment of the mellow lowing and honking of the wildebeests
and the wild bursts of zebra calls which sound somewhat like speeded-up and hysterical
versions of donkeys braying. The splendour and the freedom of those hundreds of miles of
unspoilt country, the sunrises and sunsets over plains made black by thousand of animals,
the roaring of lions and the weird whooping calls of hyenas at night, are things which I
shall remember as long as I live.
For those carnivores living on the plains the arrival of the migration each year
heralds a period of plenty. And, whilst there are some lions, cheetas, hyenas and jackals
that seldom, if ever, leave their own well-marked territories, there are others of the
same species which take advantage of the good living provided by the migration, and which
follow the herds over at least part of their yearly route. Often, in the thick of the
migration, the eater of flesh does not even need to hunt for himself. There are so many
wildebeests and zebras that natural deaths are commonplace, and the vultures, as they
plummet down from the sky, quickly give away the whereabouts of such an easy-to-get meal.
If early man followed such migrations, then, indeed, he would have been able to scavenge
for his living for a while.
Even in the midst of plenty, however, a carnivore may starve to death. I shall never
forget the crippled lioness we came across, stretched out under a tree only a few yards
from our camp. She was so thin that it was hard to believe she could be alive, but when we
drove close she wearily raised her head and looked at us out of huge sunken eyes. When the
sun sank lower and shone through the leaves directly on to her, she even got up to move
into the shade, half hopping, half dragging her crippled back legs behind her. It was
obvious that she could never recover and the kindest thing would have been to end her
suffering. But we were in the National Park, where there are strict rules that one must
not interfere with the course of nature. So we drove away and left her alone.
That night we put the cars even closer to our tents, for the thought of a starving and
wounded lioness so close to camp was terrifying. In the morning we could not find her,
though we drove back and forth through the acacias and thorn bushes for almost an hour.
All that day and the next Grublin was within a stone's throw of one of the cars, and our
African staff kept a constant lookout. The following day Hugo found the vultures tearing
at the dead body of the lioness. She had circled right round our camp and, somehow,
dragged herself another three hundred yards into the bush.
Normally the migration stays in the Legaja area until late May or early June; the year
we were there the long rains failed, there was not enough surface water to support the
herds, and they moved off precipitately at the beginning of March. Just as the flooding
had thwarted our plans the year before, the threatened drought upset them the next. For
three years running Hugo had found wild dogs with pups near Lake Legaja in March and
April. But when we set up camp there in February, for the express purpose of studying wild
dogs, there was no den. This made Hugo's study extremely difficult, for these dogs, unless
they are forced to remain in one place to look after small puppies, roam freely throughout
a vast range, seldom staying in one area more than a few days at a time. Whilst the
migration of Thompson's and Grant's gazelles, following the wildebeest and zebra herds,
grazed the plains around Legaja, Hugo and his two new student helpers, Jean-Jacques Mermod
and Roger Polk, were able to observe a number of different packs of these nomadic hunters.
Once a pack had been located, the three of them took it in turns to stay with the dogs,
until they lost them when the pack moved on moonless nights.
In April, the gazelles followed the rest of the migration, and after that it was seldom
that a pack of dogs was sighted, though Hugo, jack and Roger fanned out, in their three
cars, covering between them an area of about five hundred square miles in a day. They were
helped, too, by our friend George Dove. He has a tented safari camp at Lake Legaja, and he
told all his drivers that we were searching for dogs: if a pack was sighted George sent
someone over at once to let Hugo know.
However, despite all the frustrations and worries, Hugo man aged to get some
fascinating and completely new information on wild dogs and, on the whole, it was a happy
camp. Particularly for Grublin. He was an extremely active two-year-old by this time and,
as an extra safety measure, we had taken a third African helper on safari with us. Moro,
Thomas and Alec took turns in keeping a constant eye on Grublin. My mother was with us
too, on a long visit, and George Dove developed a special fondness for our son so that
Grublin never lacked for friends. His chief delight, at this time, lay in playing his
version of football, and it was a great sight to watch him enjoying a game with Moro and
Alec, both of whom are over six and a half feet tall.
Grublin was always excited when animals wandered close to camp as they so often did,
particularly when the migration was around the lake. Once, indeed, we all had to jump into
the car when two lions bounded between our tents as they chased a baby wildebeest. And
even when the migration had moved on we could still watch our resident group of eight
giraffes each morning, and the small herd of gazelles that never went too far from the
vicinity of our tents. Sometimes, too, an old bull rhino wandered by. In the evenings,
when Grublin was eating his supper outside the tent, long strings of graceful flamingoes
flew past, silhouetted against the red or golden sky, and giving their strange creaking
calls as they headed for a night's feeding on the lake.
Often we took Grublin out in the car to watch animals, but although he loved it I
always dreaded that we would come across some shy creature which Hugo wanted to
photograph, such as a caracal, a honey badger or the seldom seen striped hyena, all fairly
common around Lake Legaja. For then I had to use all my ingenuity to keep Grublin quiet
lest he give a loud yell at the critical moment and I was hardly able to look at the
animal at all myself. I was very grateful when my mother volunteered to take over
responsibility for our son, and so gave Hugo and me rare opportunities to go out together.
One evening, well before sunset, a striped hyena visited our camp. These animals are
not uncommon around Lake Legaja, but they are rarely seen, and virtually nothing is known
of their behaviour. On this particular evening the hyena, a remarkably handsome individual
with dark wavy stripes on a creamy background, wandered past the kitchen tent and paused
to look in. I was giving Grublin his bath, but at Moro's soft call I wrapped my son in a
towel and hurried out. Suddenly the hyena pricked his ears and began to run. He vanished
over the edge of the slope leading to the lake and we followed in the car just in time to
see him chasing a serval which had just caught a hare. The small graceful cat ran fast and
after a few yards the hyena gave up, stood for a moment, and then with a glance at his
human spectators, wandered on his way. On another occasion Hugo and I followed a striped
hyena as it foraged at night. It paid little attention to our car as it walked along
sniffing at the ground and occasionally pausing to scent-mark a tuft of grass. We watched
as it chased after a steinbuck - a small antelope only a little larger than a dik-dik -
but its prey escaped. Soon the hyena moved into thick bush and we could no longer follow.
Sometimes we all went for a drive in the dark. Grublin came with us and loved watching
for the eyes of the nocturnal creatures gleaming in the headlights. He was most excited by
the leaping eyes of the arboreal bushbabies, shining like red Christmas tree lights as the
agile little primates leapt through the branches of the trees. He enjoyed, too, the spring
hares whose brilliant eyes move in curved arcs through the darkness as their owners jump
along like diminutive kangaroos.
In the crater we had had trouble with rats nibbling their way into all our possessions.
At Legaja it was the African dormouse which pestered us. But although the damage to our
clothing and papers were about the same, it was somehow easier to forgive these dainty
tree-living rodents with their big eyes and long fluffy tails. One morning I picked up a
jam jar to spread Grublin's breakfast toast and there, crouched on a thin layer of jam at
the bottom, was one of these villains. Grublin and I tipped the jar on its side and it was
comical to see the dormouse run out, his tail no longer fluffy but clogged and sticky.
After licking himself clean, I suspect he kept well away from strawberry jam for the rest
of his life.
In June Hugo and I had to go to Europe and, when Hugo returned to Africa after ten
days. leaving me to attend some conferences, he planned to move our camp away from Lake
Legaja. But George Dove greeted him with the news that he had found a wild dog pack with a
den, and thought they had pups. Sure enough they had, and so after having given up all
hope of getting detailed information on this aspect of their behaviour, Hugo had his
chance after all.
When I returned with Grublin in August, I was appalled to see how parched and dry the
plains had become, though it was only to be expected as, apart from a couple of storms,
scarcely a drop of rain had fallen since February. Everywhere the ground was covered by
dried-out spikes or curled wisps of yellow-grey grass. Dust was a constant nightmare,
filling our noses and mouths and lungs, covering everything with a grey film, insinuating
its way into all but the most carefully sealed camera cases, rising knee high when we
walked along the well-worn tracks between our living tents. Yet dust can be amazingly
beautiful too, as when gazelles race across the plains, black shapes amidst a haze of
dust, golden red in the light of a setting sun.
As the days went by, and the plains became more and more desert-like, it was an
ever-growing source of wonder to us that so many different animals could survive. Yet on
our drives we nearly always saw giraffes and gazelles, warthogs and ostriches, hyenas and
jackals, and a variety of smaller creatures. And the dogs were there too, finding
sufficient prey to feed themselves and their pups. Eventually, though, even the dogs left
to resume their nomadic wanderings, and so, finally, we packed up our camp and after two
years of concentrated work in the field, returned, for a longer than usual spell, to our
house just outside Nairobi. Grublin for a while lived the life of a normal little boy;
played in the garden, went to a nursery school in the mornings; slept in a cot in a house
at night. Perhaps he did not even miss the open spaces where he had spent so much of his
short life. But Hugo and I, as we sorted out our photographs and our thoughts, kept
wishing we were back in the crater or in our tents at Legaja, back with the creatures we
had got to know so well.
Each of the animals which we studied revealed its own individual character, quite
different from that of its brother or father or neighbour. This will not be surprising to
some animal lovers. A dog owner is usually quick to affirm that every dog has a completely
different individuality. I know one woman who, throughout her life, has owned a succession
of cocker spaniels: these dogs have not only come from the same kennels and been trained
by the same person, but have also been brought up in the same house. Each one, she
maintains with pride, has been completely different from every other. There are many
people who will tell you the same thing, not only with relation to dogs, but also cats,
horses - and even pigs, sheep and cows. Yet, strangely, the owner of a pet wild animal
often has a different attitude and is somehow convinced that his pet has acquired its
character through its close association with man. Whilst he may realise full well that two
different fox cubs, brought up by him, will have two quite different personalities, he
seems unwilling to admit that the same creatures, in the wild, can show the same sort of
vivid individuality. His pets, by becoming part of the family, become different from
others of their kind in the wild. This, I suppose, is why many hunters who have pet
animals feel no compunction in shooting wild ones of the same sort.
One of our aims in writing this book has been to try to show that an animal has as much
character when it is wild and free as when it is tamed and brought up by humans. Of
course, it takes far longer to appreciate the personality of a creature in the wild
because the observer cannot interact with it, and many people base their assessment of an
animal's character on the way in which it responds to them personally. In our work such
judgement can only be reached after long periods of watching and recording. When Hugo
first saw Black Angel, the wild dog female, he recognized her because she had lost half of
her tail. It wasn't until he had been with the pack for weeks that he came to know Black
Angel as an individual, as different from the other wild dogs as my friend's current
cocker spaniel is from any of her previous ones.
This book, the first of two dealing with Africa's larger carnivores, is about three of
the most maligned and little understood species; they are, nevertheless, three of the most
fascinating to watch. It does not surprise us that most people are horrified at the
thought of animals which eat their prey alive, but we have made no attempt to gloss over
this aspect of their behaviour. Instead we have tried to present as comprehensive a
picture as possible, hoping that a better understanding of the creatures and a glimpse
into some of their less well-known but interesting and often charming characteristics will
show them in a better light. One incident suggests we may not be too optimistic in this
hope. A friend of ours, who has spent most of his life farming in East Africa, came to
visit us when we were on the Serengeti. Hugo was able to show him the pack of wild dogs -
of which Black Angel was a member and which had pups at the time. One evening when we had
gone to the bar at the Lodge for a drink, I chanced to overhear a remark our guest made to
an acquaintance. 'Well, one thing's for sure. I'll never shoot a wild dog again. I know
too much about them.' It was one of the most heartwarming things I had heard for years.
It may, however, take a long time to wear down people's prejudices. Even in Europe
people can have the strangest misconceptions about animals: that hedgehogs steal cows'
milk; that bats will become entangled in a woman's hair; that Alsatians are always
untrustworthy with small children. The only time in my child hood that I remember being
really rude to an old lady was when I was in a field, during a treasured country holiday,
stroking a pig. He was one of those black and pink Saddlebacks, and it had taken me days
of proffered apple cores and potato peels before he would allow me to touch him. The old
lady called me imperiously to the fence, only to tell me that I should never touch pigs
for their hair would give me unspeakably horrible diseases, and I should not breathe their
breath for the same reason.
Small wonder, then, that such little-known creatures as the subjects of our book should
come in for their share of disrepute. A little while ago, when we were driving from
Nairobi to the Serengeti, the usual popular opinion of the hyena was brought home to us.
We had a young Englishman in the car who had wanted a lift. Hugo saw the body of a dead
animal on the road, and We peered ahead to see what it was.
'Oh, it's only a foul hyena,' said our travelling companion. 'Good riddance to it.'
And then, before Hugo and I could comment, a small, rather worried voice piped up from
beside me:
'Poor hyena all broken. He like Mummy's hyenas. What's happened him?'
Grublin had been brought up with wild animals from an early age. Photographs of hyenas,
in our files, are not just hyenas to him. He cannot identify the different individuals,
for that takes weeks of training and practice, but he knows they have different names and
he will ask what each one is called. He, surely, will develop an appreciation of animals
in the truest sense. And, because more and more is being found out about the ways of wild
animals, and because animal books are becoming more accurate and factual and less and less
filled with fantasy and exaggeration, there is hope that the younger generation of to-day
will grow up without many of the fallacies and misconceptions concerning animals which
have prevailed for countless generations.
Our research into the behaviour of the carnivores will have been worthwhile indeed if
by sharing our knowledge we can kindle in others something of our respect and affection
for these innocent killers.
