Watching

Chris McBride

In order to observe the lions properly I decided to have a cage built on the jeep, around the seats and the rear section. I doubt if it would have stopped a really determined lioness, but at least inside it I felt safe. I couldn't possibly have relaxed enough to watch the lions' behavior if I had been in an open car with a full-grown lioness only a few yards away.

There was another good reason for the cage. I didn't want to have to kill any of the lions. Looking at them through the iron bars, we could accept threatening behavior, even mock charges, without overreacting and shooting at them.

In the same way, whenever I went on foot among the lions, I always carried a gun big enough to stop a charging lion in its tracks. If you carry a powerful gun, you probably won't ever have to use it. The gun gives you confidence, and the animals sense it. Knowing that you can stop them, you can afford to let them come at you until the very last moment. A lion is a big animal. You'd have to be a very bad shot to miss.

But carrying a small rifle can be dangerous. Sensing your feeling of insecurity, a lion may well attack, and you may be tempted to shoot before you really need to. Also, if you do shoot, you may not kill the animal instantly.

When I first went tracking with Jack Mathebula thirteen years ago, I was young and rash, and we had an experience that turned my stomach to water. Near the Machaton River we found some lion tracks and drag marks. A kill had been dragged down toward the river. Perhaps there was a lioness with cubs around somewhere. In the soft sand of the riverbed we saw the drag marks again, and I said to Jack, "Come on, let's go across."

"No, wait," he said urgently. Then, "Look."

I looked at the bush on the far side, and for a long time I couldn't see anything. Then I spotted the top of one ear.

We decided to go back to higher ground for a better view. The previous day we'd come across twenty-five lions feeding on a giraffe, and as soon as we'd appeared, they'd fled. So maybe I was feeling a bit overconfident. When we couldn't see the lioness at all from the higher position, I decided to throw a stone into the bush to see whether she was still there.

"Haye" (No), Jack said, and shook his head.

The stone went through a shrub and hit the ground. Nothing happened. I threw a second ... and there was a slight movement.

Then there was a sudden explosion. The trees just burst apart and the lioness charged over the riverbed and came straight at us. Her tail was going like a whip and there was this terrifying rumbling roar.

I had my rifle up and she was big in my sights when Jack said, "Yima! Ungalibulali!" (Stand still. Don't shoot.) The lioness stopped about twenty paces away from us. A low rumbling sound was still coming from deep within her stomach. I kept my gun leveled on her.

Again Jack spoke, softly but firmly. "No. Don't shoot."

The lioness stood her ground for a few seconds. Then she backed off slowly, still growling, toward the river. Sheepishly I lowered my gun.

That lesson served me well on other occasions. One time a friend and I were out tracking, and three lionesses came at us, straight out of the riverine bush—all at once and at full speed. It was a terrifying predicament. When they stopped about twenty-five paces from us, we had our rifles trained on them. We stood our ground, and remembering Jack's advice, I held my fire. Eventually we were able to back away, reasonably confident that the lions wouldn't charge again.

Jack also insisted that if you did turn and run, you'd be dead within seconds. I've yet to try this one out, for obvious reasons.

In all the time I've been tracking lions, I've been charged six times—usually by a lioness, I might add, and probably because there were cubs around. Thanks to Jack's counsel, though, I've shot only once. I'd be the last to deny that it's a completely natural reaction to fire at a charging beast, but I often wonder how many charging lions have been shot quite unnecessarily.

From The White Lions of Timbavati, Paddington Press Ltd., New York 1977.