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A TALE OF TWO LEOPARDS

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I spend the next few years working in the Zambezi Valley. This valley is a spectacular expanse of ruggedly imposing bush country, bounded by two impressive escarpments and bisected by the mighty Zambezi River itself. The Zambezi Valley is the valley of the buffalo, and of the tsetse fly, and of jesse bush, and much, much more. The Zambezi Valley is, I am to discover, untouched Africa incarnate. Although I am initially reluctant to leave the Lowveld, I soon realize that this awesome valley has much to offer the adventurous soul, and I thoroughly enjoy my time in that place.

Few men of the bush are as competent as Mulavu, and none that I have ever come across. And that’s saying something for I have come across many competent men of the bush. Mulavu means lion in the Tonga language and it is a most fitting name for the man in question. Mulavu knows the bush intimately, as does his namesake.

I am a mischievous youth at times, constantly craving and looking for stimulation that is not always there, that can never always be there. Most of the time, my efforts at entertaining myself are propelled by an impetuous frame of mind, the plan seldom suitably thought out. Sometimes my efforts backfire horribly, as they did late one night deep in the heart of the Zambezi Escarpment, at a fascinating and totally isolated place known as Mchesu. This mountainous area is named for the Mchesu River, which jinxes and drops away through it, constantly dodging the terrain’s formidable defenders and working its way doggedly toward conclusion, somewhere far in the valley below. It is on the banks of this appealing little mountain river that my boss and I have decided to build a fly camp, primarily for elephant and lion hunting purposes. I arrive at the Mchesu River one day with very little in the way of anything – a Land Cruiser and a few guys, axes and shovels, essential camping gear, food supplies and nothing much else. Whilst trying to find the agreed upon place, I pass through an isolated mission station known as Kariangwe, and manage to employ a couple of local lads there. The word subsequently gets out, and soon I have a gang of about fifteen guys building the camp. It is at these guys that mischief is directed late one night, deep in the heart of the Zambezi Escarpment.
My boss is a kindly soul and he understands the loneliness of bush life, he too spends much time away from civilization. Don’t get me wrong, it is a fine way to live, but it can be lonely at times. Because of the loneliness factor the boss has installed a state of the art stereo system in my Land Cruiser, a link to civilization should I ever feel the need for it. I have a dozen or so cassettes and, at times, while away the evenings listening to music. I believe that music has much to offer this world, and I have always derived a great deal of comfort from music sessions. Anyway, amongst my collection of cassettes is a collection of African animal calls, given to me by the kindly boss. The combination of this cassette and my prankster nature is the cause for mischief late that night, on the banks of the Mchesu River. Or maybe I should say the attempted mischief, for the backfire is loud.
I have been listening to soft music for some time and am beginning to get drowsy, thinking about bed, when the idea kicks in. It suddenly dawns on me that none of the guys have yet heard the animal call cassette, and that this is a perfect opportunity to entertain myself a little. The guys are camped a couple of hundred metres away and I know that they will all be sound asleep by now. And so I rummage about in the cubbyhole for the animal call tape and insert it in the deck, turning the volume down low and locating the minute long lion recording. Then I twist the volume control to maximum, and the roaring and grunting of alien lions shatters the silent night. There are many lions here in the escarpment, and I confidently assume that the high quality recording will be accepted as nothing other than the real thing. I play snatches of the lion recording on and off for a few minutes, before satisfying myself that the desired effect will have been achieved. Then I walk over to my tent a few metres away, retrieve a feeble torch and my .223 rifle, and head up to where the guys are camped, not far off.

Naturally, the silence is absolute at the workers’ camp. I chuckle quietly to myself, thinking what a great prank it is turning out to be. Then I call out into the night.
“Varume, pane shumba pa chikowa.” “Men, there are lions down at the river. Come and help me, I wish to scare them off.”
I chuckle again, having great fun. It is well known about camp that I have next to no big game hunting experience, and now that fact must be absolutely compounded. I mean, whoever heard of scaring lions off? It is also well known that I have only a light calibre weapon in camp, good for impala and nothing much else. The guys, whom I know are wide awake, must think I am either drunk or have gone totally insane.
“Varume,” I persist, “wuya mu batsira.” “Men, come and help.”
Silence prevails.
A couple of minutes of unanswered false pleading ensues, as I sink the hook as deeply as possible, before deciding to let the guys in on the joke. Although, I never actually get a chance to share the joke, for at that moment I am turned conclusively into the joke. I hear a hut door scraping open and a stocky, bare-chested figure approaches, materializing from the gloom. A soft spoken but strong voice speaks.
“You wish to scare away the lions? I shall come with you, let us go.”
The man moves off, watched in the feeble torchlight by a thoroughly deflated and disbelieving prankster.
“Wait,” I say, and the stocky man turns to face me questioningly.
“Let us go and scare the lions,” he says, hovering.
I hope that my discomfort is not detected but sense that it is, as I haltingly stammer out an excuse.
“They have been silent a while now, maybe they have moved off?”
“It may be so. Still, do you wish us to go and check?”
“It could be pointless,” I stammer, back-peddling furiously. “It seems they have moved on.”
“Yes. Then let us sleep, there is much work to do tomorrow.”
With that the stocky man walks back to his hut and the door scrapes shut. Alone in the night I feel humbled.

The next day, whilst lashing together the skeleton that shall soon be the dining room with the guys, I get to know something of the stocky man. His name is Mulavu and he has lived in this area forever, as his father did before him. And he is a hunter, as was his father. Mulavu explains that, though he believes himself to be a hunter, unlike his father he is considered by the law to be a poacher. He says he does not wish to break the law and has had to think up alternative means of making a living now. Anyway says Mulavu resignedly, whilst we work a heavy mopani corner pole into position, such is the way of the world, the disappointment that is commonly referred to as changing times and progression. That a man may not hunt to sustain his family in his own homeland, but commercial poaching may continue unabated and on an unprecedented scale – abetted, in all probability, by the very powers that publicly denounce it. Mulavu’s bottom line opinion is that we are not progressing but are stuck firmly in reverse, and I take to the man wholeheartedly. Later in the day, whilst walking down to the river together, I bring up the lions, saying how brave I found his reaction of the previous night to be. Mulavu chuckles and gives me a wink.
“Last night was very strange,” he says, “very strange indeed. At first I was uncertain, but not for long. I have lived in this area my entire life and I have heard and seen many, many lions, but never have I heard lions such as those. Those lions were on a kill during the day and not drinking down at the river by night. It was all very strange indeed. The lions intimidated most of the men, but not I. How is it possible, after all, to fear something that is not? And those lions certainly never were, for I have never come across lions that do not leave their prints on the ground.”
Smiling wryly to myself, I follow Mulavu down to the river.

A truck arrives one day from our main camp Sengwa. Sengwa is a camp we built a few months before, about eighty kilometres away, down in the valley proper, on Lake Kariba’s shoreline. The truck is carrying a couple of buffalo carcasses and instructions from my boss to do some lion baiting and assess cats on the ground, in preparation for a big incoming safari. Mulavu and I set about the task with gusto and we soon have four baits spread about the vicinity, strung up in likely looking spots. We check these baits on a daily basis, anticipating a prompt hit. Although the lions keep a low profile, we soon have several leopards feeding. One day, we find that a pair of leopards is feeding from one of the half-buffalo hunks, in an ebony tree not far from the Mchesu River, downstream from camp. Obviously the leopards in question are male and female, and Mulavu says that they are mating, that it is the right time of the year for that activity. We continue monitoring cats on the ground in the fascinating Mchesu area.
The two leopards return to the bait every night, and soon even the considerable half-buffalo is beginning to show the effects of their nightly feasts. When they get the opportunity, leopards, particularly males, are able to eat a disproportionately great deal of meat in a sitting. It is winter and the weather is cool enough now to keep meat for some time. Well, for longer than usual anyway – usual being hot conditions and a couple of days at most. At this time, we can easily get a week’s mileage from bait. One night, a lone male lion that transpires to be moving through the area depletes the bait further, and Mulavu and I become somewhat elated about our ability as lion baiters. The leopards obviously stay away that night, but the lion doesn’t return and they are back on bait the following night. In any case, it turns out not to matter that we fail to get lions feeding, because the client cancels his safari a few days later, due to illness. Mulavu and I consequently do the bait run, dropping all the ripening lion baits for the scavengers. All but the bait in the ebony tree, the two leopards are still feeding and we are both thoroughly enjoying that.
Of course, the leopard larder is also ripening, and we realize that we will have to replenish it soon or they will stop feeding. I am allowed to occasionally shoot a couple of impala for workers’ rations, and Mulavu and I decide that, in the interests of furthering our knowledge of leopard behaviour, it would be permissible to sideline some of this ration. Not that we are going to explain ourselves to anyone anyway. No one shall ever know what we get up to in these mountains. We could have a huge poaching racket going on up here if we felt the need – the need that others do feel. Anyway, Mulavu and I go out one day and shoot an impala ram, which we replace the bones and maggot infested, rotting flesh of the buffalo with, stringing it up high in the ebony tree. The leopards are most pleased with the advent of the impala and, though they must already have seriously sagging bellies, gorge enthusiastically on the fresh offering.
Early one morning, Mulavu and I surprise the leopards on the bait. I am driving a petrol-propelled Land Cruiser and it has a fairly quiet approach. Not that the leopards are too concerned anyway. Mulavu sees the female first, flattened out on a tree limb, close to the dangling impala carcasse. He gestures and I brake reflexively. As the female descends the tree in a flash, the male appears not forty yards ahead, padding heavy-bellied across the track and giving us an angry glare. The grass is sparse here and, after rolling forward a few more metres, we are treated to a spectacular sighting of the leopards trotting off toward the trees, in no real hurry it seems. The male disappears into cover but the female stops once in the open ground. Curiously she turns back, staring at us for long seconds. Then she too disappears, obviously satisfying curiosity.
Leopards are seldom seen in the bush and the sighting excites Mulavu and I tremendously. And it was such a grand sighting, not the normal bush-obscured, fleeting glimpse. Mulavu says that these leopards encounter very little disturbance up here in the mountains, and do not readily fear man yet. We follow the leopard tracks into the trees and a short distance further, just for doing it. And then we amble happily back towards the vehicle – ambling happily along and chatting about leopards.
“Let us wait for these leopards tonight,” says Mulavu, “and watch them feed.”
Of course, there is no question and we start planning. Shortly afterwards, we complete piecing together a rudimentary blind from sticks, leaves and grass. We situate the blind about sixty yards away from the bait, in a small clump of bush across the track, downwind and well camouflaged. As we drive back to camp, Mulavu and I eagerly anticipate the forthcoming evening.
At about 4 pm we leave the Cruiser a fair distance from the bait and walk into our blind. Soon we are firmly ensconced and well concealed within the clump of bush, seated side by side, breathlessly expectant. A short time passes and then we hear the male leopard grunting close at hand, from somewhere downstream. Not fifteen minutes later he is in the tree, appearing on the dinner supporting limb in illusionary fashion, as only leopards can. Without delay, the large tom hooks honed claws into the impala carcass, effortlessly lifting the meat up onto the limb and displaying his remarkable strength. Tom does not waste any time getting stuck in, obviously not going with the ‘ladies first’ theory. And then the lady is also there, sitting at the base of the tree, occasionally inspecting her nails and looking about the place. The leopards are wholly unperturbed and I know that our blind is serving its purpose well. We watch the leopards feeding for about one mesmerizing hour, until the sun sets and darkness descends. And then we listen to them feeding, for several hours more. It is late when Mulavu touches my thigh and leads the way cautiously from the blind, into the bush away from the leopards, leaving them completely undisturbed, as we had wished to.

We return a number of times to the blind and watch the leopards feeding. They soon work their way through one impala and we string up another, and then another. It is a most inspiring feeling to watch these remarkable cats feeding in this remote wilderness area, with Mulavu sitting by my side. This is as wild as it gets, I think to myself. Mulavu and I observe much intriguing leopard behaviour from our concealed observatory within that clump of bush, including an evening when mating takes precedence over feeding. Most intriguing behaviour indeed, especially for a virgin like me. We keep the leopards feeding for weeks on end and spend much time watching them from our blind. By now there is a well-worn and most familiar path leading from the blind into the bush. Excursions to view the leopards become a very important part of our routine, an activity that we keenly look forward to. Mulavu even christens the two splendid cats, with very suitable names. They are Induna (Chief) and Musikana (Girl). As the weeks pass, Mulavu and I become very attached to the Chief and his girl.

We arrive early one morning to see how much the leopards have fed during the night, and to assess the condition of the bait. We did not sit the previous evening, being totally exhausted by a hard day’s work and turning in very early as a result. Leaving the Cruiser a distance down the road, we walk into the bait. Looking up at the dangling remnants of what was once an impala ram, Mulavu says that the leopards have not fed. We find this to be odd, for they have not skipped a night yet. Even when apparently not hungry, they have always come in and taken a few mouthfuls, making an appearance and guarding their larder from other cats, one assumes. Mulavu suggests that we scout around a little and look for spoor. He says the leopards may have come in and not fed, that he finds their absence to be strange. For what self-respecting Zambezi Valley leopard would turn its nose up at a guaranteed and undisturbed feed? Obviously none that Mulavu has ever come across.
We cross the open ground together, walking slowly along and scouring the ground for fresh tracks. Just before the trees, Mulavu discovers what he assures me are the tom’s tracks, from the night before. Mulavu is a master tracker and if he says so then it must be. Mulavu leads the way off, following the spoor and muttering about how unusual it all is – that the tom had definitely come in during the night but had not approached even close to the bait. Mulavu follows the spoor into the tree-line, with me following behind and wondering. Shortly afterwards we find Musikana, the girl.
She is lying on her side in the grass, dead and stiffening. The wire snare around her hips has dug in deep and, aided by her own threshing claws, disemboweled her completely. Shocked to the core, I kneel down and stroke her soft velvety coat. After a few minutes of disbelief, we scout about some more and discover a path worn into the earth around the death scene. A path imprinted plainly into the earth by a helpless and confused Chief, throughout the long night, on a repetitive circuit of pain and frustration. With a heavy heart and a massive lump in my throat, I carry the stiffening body of the beautiful girl to the roadside.

It is possible that the Chief only moved off when Mulavu and I arrived at the bait early that morning. Certainly he spent many hours with his girl that night, as she died and afterwards. Later in the day I returned to the place with a small gang of guys and we lifted many snares that were obviously meant for antelope. Although we may have saved some, it was too late for at least one beautiful girl.