Jackal's Dance (17 page)

Reports of the elephant and her antics had increased alarmingly over the past few days. Action would undoubtedly have been taken sooner if anyone in authority had known all the facts. They were not only dealing with a tuskless rogue, the animal was also badly injured.

The herd had been further north when they had picked up the scent of a group of men who were illegally camped in a normally off-limits section of the reserve. While the rest turned from human scent the tuskless cow characteristically charged. The bullet in her knee had stopped her, but the damage to cartilage and bone was considerable. Catching up with the herd she moved south
with them. Her damaged leg didn't stand a chance of healing. Walking with the others only aggravated the injury. Flies laid eggs in the wound and gangrene set in. Their progeny feasted on rotting flesh. The gaping sore grew larger by the day and now white bone was clearly visible. Despite the maggots' best efforts, septicaemia started to spread through the massive body. The elephant was two or three days away from merciful release and half mad with pain.

A slight breeze carried the hated scent of man. The tuskless cow had but one reaction. Ignoring her agony, she turned into the wind and set off. Search and destroy was the only emotion left in her dying heart.

Fletch kept the pace slow so that Megan could easily keep up with them. Not that she couldn't move along as fast as the others but she had to work at it, and in the withering heat it seemed an unnecessary hardship. Around camp, Megan's lurching walk was almost leisurely, but on foot in the bush she had developed a kind of rolling skip so that with weight on her good leg she would hop twice before transferring to the other. It was at least four kilometres to the jackals' den and the inmates, back by now from a night's hunting, would not be going anywhere. There was no point in rushing.

Fletch enjoyed bushwalking. Growing up on his parents' vineyards near Stellenbosch, he roamed the nearby Hottentot's Holland and Jonkershoek mountains at every opportunity. Now that he was
at university in Gauteng Province he regularly headed north-west of Johannesburg to explore the rugged Magaliesberg and Witwatersberg regions. Until last year when he first came to Etosha with the professor, he'd never walked in a game reserve. It was not something generally permitted. Some of the reserves in South Africa conducted what they called wilderness trails but participants were always in the company of an armed ranger. That was too tame for Fletch. He enjoyed the unpredictable. The knowledge that, at any stage, anything could happen. Fletch believed that if he ventured into an animal's domain it should be on equal terms – unarmed, except for a knife anyway, and on foot. Others were not so sure of his view that if he respected an animal's space, that animal would reciprocate. So far, however, he'd been proved right.

Professor Kruger agreed with Fletch. He had somehow obtained permission to track animals on foot from his very first visit to Etosha back in the late sixties. New regulations, no doubt imposed after a mishap of some kind, meant that the professor and his students were officially breaking the law. But whenever challenged, Eben would bark irritably, ‘These students intend to spend their lives in the bush. Just how do you expect me to teach them about it from behind a lectern or in a vehicle? They need to
think
like animals. What do you want out here? Future generations of armchair experts with Discovery Channel knowledge, or people willing to roll up their sleeves, get a little dirty and make a real contribution to conservation? Progress sure as
hell won't be made without bending a few rules and regulations. Give me a break.'

The powers that be didn't like it, but faced with the professor's formidable ire, were forced to admit that he had a point. He was, after all, one of Africa's leading authorities on animal behaviour. Not to mention having an unblemished record. The most dramatic emergency in over thirty years had been a student's burst appendix.

Eben knew he was on very thin ice and each trip reminded his students, ‘One stuff-up out here and you can kiss this course goodbye. For the duration of our field study you do what I say, when I say it. No questions. No ifs and buts. Is that understood?' He rarely had any trouble.

But even Eben was not infallible. Last year the professor, Fletch and six other students had followed a solitary black-maned lion for six days straight. Concentrating on such a dangerous animal, they tracked most of its movements using the group's minibus. But on two occasions they'd come into contact with the carnivore while on foot. The proximity of eight humans was tolerated with an almost bored indifference. By the time they were ready to dart, radio-collar and ear-tag the lion it was so used to them that Fletch almost felt it could have been done without the tranquilliser. Almost! The old boy did little more than growl a protest at the sudden sharp sting in his rump. Ten minutes later, with textbook precision, the drug appeared to have rendered the animal comatose. Eben announced it was safe to approach.
But their intended subject was down, not out, and took it upon himself to scatter students and one windy professor in all directions.

They'd been lucky. The drug kicked in just as the lion was making a wobbly but determined stalk on one girl who stood paralysed with fear. Bunched to spring, suddenly it was lights-out time for Leo. Later, with the lion safely back on its feet and several kilometres away, the professor reminded them, ‘If you want this life, accept its dangers. Respect the animals and chances are you'll live. Never take them for granted.' Then, with uncharacteristic sheepishness he added, ‘Like I did just then.' Prudently, Eben omitted to mention the incident to any of the park rangers.

This year involved more legwork than last, meaning everybody had to be particularly careful. Jackals, while not considered a threat to humans, were still capable of behaving unpredictably and could, if cornered or frightened, defend themselves in a way that whoever was on the receiving end would carry the scars for the rest of their life – not necessarily a lengthy burden if the animal had been rabid. Were that the case, the prospect of a few stitches would be very much of secondary concern.

As he walked, Fletch was thinking how much they'd learned about the black-backed jackal. Before this trip, if he'd thought about the animal at all, he'd have written it off as a scavenger. And it was true, the jackal did scavenge. But it was also a successful, and in some cases innovative, hunter. As
the study group had observed, following the animal as it went about a nightly routine of filling its belly, the jackal appeared to do more than simply act instinctively. It seemed capable of reasoning. Eben had told the group that San bushmen of the Kalahari Desert knew that a jackal in unfamiliar surroundings would wake from its daytime sleep, watch which way the birds were flying and then set off in the same direction. It was as if it had worked out that birds fly to water in the late afternoon and to find a drink all it had to do was follow.

The animal's diet, they had discovered, varied enormously. Jackal had perfected different methods for catching prey, depending on what it was. A column of termites on the move was caviar, licked up and swallowed whole. Grasshoppers, spiders, beetles, sausage flies and the like were either pounced on and eaten or taken with a deft midair leap off the back feet. Scorpions required a bit of finesse. Having nipped at one, the thing was to avoid a sting on the nose. A jackal did this by pulling its lips tightly back into a kind of grimace. The victim was then tossed into the air several times, before being bitten in two and swallowed.

As evening air cooled and the insect population became less active, a jackal would turn its attention to mice and rats, barrelling through the grass, head held up, ears pricked. Target located, it would stand on hind legs listening, both front paws drawn together on its chest. Then, once sure where the rodent hid, the final leap, pinning it under a well-placed foot. Excavating warrens was another
much-used method. Digging until those inside panicked and made a run for it. Professor Kruger said he'd watched a jackal dig so deeply into a rat colony that it was unable to keep watch on the other exits. So, standing with hind legs in the hole, it had drummed its front feet on the ground, setting up such a vibration that the luckless occupant decided it was time to vacate. End of story.

Snakes, birds and even fruit also formed part of the jackal's diet. With incredible agility, one would dart at the most poisonous reptile, only swerving away as it struck. Again and again, the snake would be forced to defend itself. A jackal never tired first. Judging the right moment with absolute precision, a nip midway down the reptile's back usually resulted in it making a desperate bid for escape. As soon as that happened, its tormentor came in for the kill.

Paired jackals cooperated and worked together as though they'd prepared a strategy back in the den. The students had witnessed many successful joint efforts. Each appeared to anticipate the other's movements with uncanny accuracy. Surprisingly, though, where combined effort secured larger prey, the pair would squabble like enemies over distribution of the carcass.

Rigid rules seemed to exist when it came to the protection of hunting grounds. Tolerant of some family groups, if a hunting pair found a stranger in their territory, depending on its sex, one of them would attack without hesitation. Males always fought males, females only defended their territory
against other females. Strangely, given their collaboration in the matter of food, and irrespective of how well or badly a fight was going, no jackal ever crossed the gender line to rescue a partner.

At first it seemed as if jackals ate an extraordinary amount of food, far more than they needed. They would gorge and gorge until their stomachs bulged, making movement an ungainly waddle. However, the reason for this assumed gluttony had soon become clear. Food was always carried back for the family. As soon as an adult returned from hunting, the young jackals would rush up to them, licking at its mouth. The parent, whether it be mother or father, then opened its mouth wide and regurgitated the meal, depositing it on the ground for the pups to eat.

And then, of course, there was scavenging. Here, in particular, jackals showed bravery and cunning. As the study group had witnessed yesterday, when necessary, rival families could cooperate with each other in the interests of a meal. But, mission accomplished, God help the slow or those low in the hierarchy chain. It was every jackal for himself.

Late the previous afternoon the study group had parked the bus at a suitable vantage point to observe the selected den. While the professor was perfectly happy for them to walk around the bush by day, no-one was allowed to set foot off the bus after sunset, in case lion or leopard sought to satisfy rumbling stomachs with a tender young student. The jackal family they were watching – a male, female, semi-grown female probably from last
year's litter and three pups no more than four weeks old – showed no objection to the human presence provided they kept a distance of at least twenty metres. Any closer and the jackals became nervous, retreating to their den. The professor had decided that three of the jackals were ideal subjects for the study and wanted them ear-tagged so that future relationships could be monitored. Other families, presumably related, lived along the same dry riverbed, each having a hunting territory of approximately two square kilometres, which they meticulously marked with urine to deter outside intruders. Eben wanted to see how inbred the animals were becoming.

As on the previous five evenings, the whole family were resting in sparse grass cover just outside their den. The male lay slightly apart, head resting on front legs. The feeding female lay on one side, all three pups drinking from swollen teats while the half-grown daughter groomed her mother's neck. It was quite normal for a sub-adult to remain with the family and assist in raising the following year's litter. This babysitter released both parents to concentrate on hunting, thus assuring a steady supply of food for the ever-hungry pups. It also provided security against predators while the adults were away. A wary father lifted his head when he heard the bus and watched it approach. As soon as the motor was cut, he relaxed and settled down again.

One by one, the pups stopped feeding and curled up next to their mother. They looked like
fluffy little balls of grey Angora wool. ‘Aren't they cute?' Angela whispered.

Professor Kruger had frowned at her.

The mated pair had been dubbed King and Queen. Their year-old offspring was Missy and the pups Moja, Mbili and Tatu – a rather strange choice, meaning one, two and three in Swahili, the lingua franca of east Africa thousands of kilometres distant as the crow flies. The professor, who had named the pups, was something of an African language devotee, having spent time when he was younger studying similarities between Swahili, Zulu, Swazi and Xhosa. Consequently, not that they cared, many of the animals in Namibia's Etosha National Park bore field study names that were completely foreign to anything spoken locally. Troy's remark, ‘I won't tell them if you don't,' had drawn another of many disapproving frowns from Eben.

Early evening was the time when jackals called to each other. Each night, just before setting off to hunt, all the families up and down the riverbed would cry out, muzzles lifted towards the sky as they howled in mournful greeting. It was a behavioural phenomenon that fascinated Eben. He favoured the theory that since each family group was probably related, this was a communal way of interacting. Fletch put forward the suggestion that they might be advertising their intention to start hunting – a kind of warning. Kalila said that was rubbish, the jackal were simply responding to instinct. Whatever the reason, nightly howling was
as predictable as the sun setting, as stirring a sound as any the bush had to offer and one guaranteed to thrill. Heard no matter how many times, Eben always felt the hairs on the back of his neck bristle. Even pups would join in the nightly chorus although, until they were older, were unable to produce anything more than high-pitched squeaks.