1
Lion Heart
This is the story of George Adamson, his lions and
wilderness, and my privileged, enriching relationship with
both - a short six-month adventure which was potentially to
become my life's work.
My linking kinship with George Adamson began over fifteen
years ago when I was a child growing up in the West African
state of Nigeria.
On my twelfth birthday my mother gave me two things: the
first, a copy of Bwana Game, George's autobiography;
the second, a 'game reserve' - a wide board covered with
painted papier-mâché hills, plains and waterholes. Great
elephants of plastic roamed plains of paper and, on the edge
of blue waterholes, painted zebras and antelope abounded. I
was soon lost in a land of imaginary adventures; of brave
game wardens living with lions, and constantly in pursuit of
destructive poachers.
I had grown up amongst the wildness of Africa from the
sub-Saharan regions of northern Nigeria to the swampy lands
of the south. I witnessed in East Africa, at a young age,
part of the great migration of wildebeest, crashing across
the Serengeti plains. I had seen snoozing lions in trees at
Lake Manyara and run free as a growing boy amongst the slopes
and streams of the Michiru mountains in Malawi.
I lived free and uninhibited, searching for animals with
my African playmates. I was learning and living a natural
education, an education of the people and animals of the
land.
But, at the age of fourteen, convention stepped in. My
marginal results at the local Malawian school banished me for
two and a half years to a country I did not know, and still
don't - Britain.
I was sent to southern England, to muddy fields, endless
oppressive rain and new customs for a boy born British but
loving only Africa. It was a tumultous period of awkwardness
and heartache; full of dreams of fleeing, somehow, back to
Africa. I achieved mediocre 'O' level results, and the image
of a man in the wilderness, living amongst lions, remained in
my mind.
From a cold, hollow, British classroom, I wrote a letter
to George Adamson, and it was then that, for the first time,
I wrote freely and uninhibitedly about my feelings for the
wilds, Africa and my obsession to return to the continent.
George received the letter, and later passed it on to Joy
Adamson who, unlike George, was looking for an assistant for
her leopard study in the Shaba National Reserve.
At this time I had returned to Malawi on holiday and here,
via Kenya and Britain, I received a letter from Joy.
She said that she was prepared, in principle, to take me
on, to give me a chance to work with the leopard, Penny,
Queen of Shaba. Joy instructed me to come to Kenya while she
applied for my work permit. Those passionately written words
from the classroom had somehow given me the chance I was
yearning for.
I flew back to Britain elated, but such happiness was to
be short lived. Upon reaching London - by now ignoring the
bustling people and stormy skies - I bought a newspaper and
stood shocked and horrified as I read the headline, 'Joy
Adamson Murdered'.
I had lost a dream, and the world had lost a voice from
the wilderness. It was a voice whose words and deeds had
captured the hearts of millions and created an awareness of
the wilderness which has never since been surpassed.
Over the next few weeks, I mourned what had happened and,
in the remote Kenyan bush, an old man with a mane of
yellow-white hair stood over the grave of Elsa, his bond with
Joy, and buried his wife's ashes under the stony slab.
Six months later I returned to Africa, perhaps now even
mote determined to make my quest a life's work and, at the
age of eighteen, I began a career which would lead me to a
love for lions, and ultimately to George Adamson.
I began as an apprentice game ranger in a private game
reserve bordering the Kruger National Park in South Africa,
and remember clearly my first encounter and education with
lions.
Early one morning I was. in the reserve with an
experienced ranger, when an old lioness suddenly appeared
and, without warning, tore towards our open vehicle. We were
surrounded by thick bush and, while my companion was
attempting to urge life into the ailing engine, the lioness
bounded forward.
We had no firearm - only a stout length of wood.
Primeval instinct took over and with natural self
preservation I hollered and screamed at the lioness, banging
the vehicle sides with the stick. The Land Rover eventually
lurched forward and the lioness slowed down and stopped.
The lesson learned was to remain with me - respect the
wild, but do not fear it, because fear fuels disaster.
From this apprentice stage I moved to work with Dr Ian
Player of the Wilderness Leadership School. In a tumbledown
farmhouse, perched in the foothills of the Drakensberg range,
I lived with my co-worker and friend, Rozanne Savory. Here I
was responsible for a sizeable spread of wild land. I would
walk for miles checking fences, pulling up poachers' snares
and shooting at their hunting dogs as Rozanne drummed up
business for nature trails through an antiquated crank-up
telephone. I was rapidly learning about the wilderness
concept and part of my job was to pass on my love and concern
for the wilds to the troops of children who visited the
nature trails centre.
After a year I made a fortuitous move which found me in
the big game bush country of the North East Tuli Block in
Botswana. Here, through being instructed to instigate a study
of an unknown lion population, my love and empathy for this
great cat was born. For four years I spoke, wrote and dreamt
about the animal. which symbolized the African wilderness. I
entered the lions' lives as deeply as they entered mine'. I
grew to know prides, and the lions themselves as individuals
- shared their triumphs and suffered with them their
persecution.
Through poaching and illegal hunting,. I was to "lose
twenty-five lions in two and a half years from the reserve's
regional population of fifty-five. I found my lions snared by
poachers' traps - whenever possible, releasing them from the
cruel wire - while others were shot by neighbouring South
African farmers, who would lure my lions on to their farms
and to their deaths, merely for sport.
The emotion. and grief I felt while attempting to protect
these cats resulted in my first book, Cry for the Lions -
a call for the much-needed conservation of the lions of all
Africa.
Today I feel that such emotion which I had expressed was
uncannily similar to that which George felt at a similar
stage of his life. Generations apart, we were both repulsed
by the destruction of such animals. This is reflected in two
passages from two books - his Bwana Game and my Cry
for the Lions.
George wrote:
One evening we came on a magnificent lioness on a rock,
gazing out across the plains. She was sculptured by the
setting sun, as though she were part of the granite on which
she lay. I wondered how many lions had lain on the self-same
rock during countless centuries while the human race was
still in its cradle. It was a thought which made me reflect
that though civilized man has spent untold treasure on
preserving ancient buildings and works of art fashioned by
the hand of man, yet he destroys these creatures which typify
the perfection of ageless beauty and grace. And he does so
for no better reason than to boast of a prowess achieved by
means of a weapon designed by man to destroy man, or to use
its skin to grace some graceless abode. In my mind's eye, I
could see the vast herds of wild creatures on these great
plains swept away by progress, as they have been swept. away
in other lands and, in their stead, herds of degenerate
livestock; it was a depressing vision..
Some twenty years after this piece was published, I wrote
the following about one of my lions, slain and later mounted
in a taxidermist's shop
Its' face had been moulded into a fearsome snarl, its body
stiff and mis-shapen. The price tag stated three thousand
rands. While the shell of a lion can be given a price, a
living lion is surely priceless. It seems strange that a
masterpiece created by man, an. ancient sculpture, for
example, is revered by him as a holy relic. However, a
masterpiece created by nature, a lion, a form of life much
older than the human race is still today destroyed for
pleasure. Such is the strange way of some men.
My first meeting with George stemmed from a conversation
with a friend of mine early in 1988. I was at this time
researching material for my second book, Where the Lion
Walked, a work through which I wished to illustrate the
largely unrecognized fact that the lion and Africa are
reaching a disastrous dilemma. I had driven some twenty-two
thousand kilometres through wild areas of southern Africa and
had paused in Johannesburg to plan the final part of the
project. My friend suggested that I should contact and visit
George, as he knew of my deeply passionate feelings for the
future of the lion in today's Africa and that by meeting
George I would be able to speak freely and uninhibitedly
about the lion as I knew the animal.
Prompted by this suggestion, I decided that the final
chapter of the book would be a reflection on a different
Africa to the one which, for six months, I had travelled
through I would write of the Africa of old which is quickly
passing us by - George Adamson's Africa.
I wrote to George telling him of my work with lions and
inquired as to whether I could visit him. In time I received
a reply stating that I would certainly be welcomed at his
camp and that he looked forward to hearing more about my
work. Weeks later I passed on a message to George through
friends in Nairobi that I would be visiting in June 1988.
Accompanied by my friend, Jane Hunter, who was assisting
me with my project, we flew to Kenya. After a brief but
magical sojourn in the Masai Mara, we hired a Suzuki jeep in
Nairobi and one morning, clutching hand-written directions on
how to reach Kora, we set off.
Five hours after leaving Nairobi, we reached the southern
boundary of the Kora Reserve. My first impression was one of
shock at the desperately dry, over-grazed appearance of the
reserve. Grass was virtually non-existent, represented only
by sharp, dry tufts held by the baked ground. I knew that the
area was overrun by nomadic Somali tribesmen and their herds
of camels, cattle and goats, but the destruction caused by
the desperate feeding of the livestock was frighteningly
visible.
I thought to myself while driving through this isolated
and vulnerable reserve how sad it was that a man who had
dedicated his life to wildlife was now, in his twilight
years, living in an area which epitomized man's destruction
of the wilderness.
We reached Kampi ya Simba, George's home, in the
early evening. The camp, encircled by a lion-proof fence,
seemed empty and quiet as we drove up to the gate. Silently,
one of George's staff appeared to open the gate and I drove
into the camp with a feeling of excitement, merged with a
slight tingle of apprehension. After parking the vehicle, we
were led by the member of staff towards the largest of the
collection of palm-fronded buildings. As I walked, I saw
through a gap in the palm leaves covering the buildings, a
glimpse of a mane of white hair and the unmistakable profile
of George Adamson.
As we reached the hut, George suddenly appeared. He was
dressed in his green shorts and had leather sandals on his
feet. At first, he looked at Jane and me with a puzzled
expression and in a somewhat formal fashion, I hastily
introduced our selves. Then George smiled, his face
transformed, and. the characteristic sparkle in his eyes
instantly put us at ease. 'Oh yes,' he said, 'I remember your
letter now. Would you like some tea?' Another figure then
appeared from the mess hut and George introduced us to Margot
Henke, an old friend of Joy's and George's who was visiting
the camp.
Soon we were settled down and quickly the conversation
turned to 'lion'. I remembered on that first meeting, the
great interest George took in the copy of my book, Cry for
the Lions, which I had brought for him. I told him more
about my work with the lions in Botswana and described the
poaching problems. To this he reacted with a creased brow,
his head shaking despondently. As he murmured, 'Good God,' it
was as though he was grieving for my lions' deaths as he
would grieve for his own. This reaction was purely due to the
fact that they were lions - the animal he cares so deeply
for.
The conversation in the mess hut was monopolized by George
and me as Jane and Margot quietly listened to our
discussions. The talk continued as the sun lowered to the
horizon and as the African night sounds began - the
'pink-pink' of bats and the monotonous crickets' song. It was
an evening of constant exchange of questions. George, in his
answers, would verify my thoughts on lion behaviour and would
inquire more about my lions in Botswana. As the night went
on, he unfolded parts of his life-long experience with lions.
That first meeting with George proved my friend's
suggestion correct - it was a remarkable experience for me.
For the first time I was talking freely and completely about
the lion without fear of the maligning scepticism of the
blinkered or disbelieving scientist.
After a simple dinner of soup and toast and after Jane and
Margot had retired to sleep, George and I began to talk at
length about subjects such as telepathy between lions and the
possible existence of such communication between man and
lion. George listened as I described uncanny meetings between
Darky, an old pride male of the North East Tuli Block and
myself - meetings where a form of understanding and
communication seemingly existed.
I recounted to George how, a year and a half before, when
I was planning to leave the North East Tuli Block to write Cry
for the Lions to publicize the plight of my
lions, a strange encounter took place between Darky and me. I
told how one morning in the reserve I had found this lion's
tracks and followed them on foot as I had done almost every
week for nearly four years. On this occasion though I felt,
for the first time, a sense of foreboding. I followed the
tracks across a dry riverbed, through the dark depths of
riverine bush until finally, an hour later, the tracks led me
on to a wide flood plain. I continued to follow Darky's
tracks but the 'bad feeling' persisted. When I was half-way
across the flood plain, I decided to return to the vehicle
and continue the search from my Land Rover. As I turned and
walked away, I suddenly heard in the distance sounds of
crashing in the bush. I spun around to see Darky rushing out
of the scrub towards me. He was dashing forward in long
bounds, his mouth agape. I told George that evening that my
first response to this was not fear, but anger - 'Why was he
doing this to me?' The lion I had known so well and never
feared was charging forward with an intent to maim or kill.
The distance between us dosed in a flash and I raised my
rifle. When Darky was just twenty yards away, I fired over
his head, praying that the report of the shot would turn him.
The lion then sprang into the air, tore over a small acacia
bush and disappeared into the thick bush with a volley of
hoarse grunts.
I continued to tell George how shocked I was by this
unusual aggression from Darky and how, at the time, I could
not explain the attack. Lions generally fear man and if a
lion is unseen by man on foot, it will not show itself,
preferring to remain hidden. Darky had reacted in the
opposite way. I had not seen him, was a long distance away,
and was walking in the opposite direction from where he lay.
I knew at the time that there must be an explanation for his
behaviour.
After describing this incident to George; I suddenly felt
a tingle of excitement as the realization of a possible
explanation became clear. By his behaviour, Darky was
charging towards me as he would to a competing predator, a
leopard for example, or as he would to a rival male lion
which had encroached into his territory. Because of my
empathy for lions, was Darky reacting towards me as though I
were a lion? Do lions see not only with their eyes but with
their souls, perhaps recognizing me not as a man physically,
but, in some form of interpretation, as having a lion's
spirit? These were the questions kindled by my first meeting
with George.
George, in response to my story, told me of some similar
experiences he had had with lions. He told me, for example,
how it was not unusual for his lions, second and third
generation wild-born lions, offspring of those he had reared
after months away in the bush, to appear suddenly at the camp
and present their cubs to him. This behaviour is normally
reserved for the pride where, when cubs are about two months
old, a lioness will introduce them to the pride members.
That first evening with George wonderfully strengthened my
belief in the suspicions I had about man and lion, but which
I had not spoken of before. While I spoke, George would nod
indulgently and understandingly. Perhaps George too, for so
long had been caged by the limited frontiers of what
outsiders could accept and believe and thus, like me, could
not express his true thoughts and feelings.
In the three days we spent at Kampi ya Simba George
and I discussed other situations and experiences at length,
moments that derive from an unflagging belief and insight
into the lion and its world and on reflection, I believe that
possibly this was one of the few times George recognized that
someone else shared his empathy with the lion. The beginning
of our closeness was thus kindled.
On our last night with George, we talked of how he would
like to re-establish his lion rehabilitation work, a project
which had been closed down by the authorities for eight long
years. At the time of our visit he had just been granted
permission by the Department of Wildlife to continue the
work. Late that final evening he suggested that perhaps I
would like to return to Kora after completing the work on my
book to help him with his project.
'I am getting a touch old now, Gareth,' he added with the
sparkle in his eyes. I sensed that he wanted to know more
about me, and I in turn dearly wanted to learn and gain a
greater insight into his thoughts and beliefs.
We then discussed how probable it would be for me to be
granted a work permit but deliberately did not dwell too long
on this, as I felt that George wanted to see my experience
with lions for himself, before any hard decision was made. At
George's offer, I decided then that I would return to Kora
and see what would develop in the long term.
