PATRIARCHY IN THE BUSH

This is a short note from South Africa where we’ve just wrapped up a safari at Sabi Sands Game Reserve next to Kruger National Park.

During our last 6 AM game ride in South Africa’s Sabi Sands Game Reserve, our driver-guide Omega suddenly swerved off the path towards an unknown destination. Someone had spotted a pride of cats crossing the road from Kruger National Park into Sabi Sands Game Reserve. Now, we were on a lion hunt and I was very afraid. As Omega stepped on the gas, our jeep lurched forward; bramble bored into the edges of our seats. The wind was relentless on this cold morning and I kicked myself for not sleeping in on the last day at Inyati. Beneath us we heard the crunch of metal on stone and branch. Sometimes our tracker Joel signaled to us and we remembered to duck before twigs and thorns scratched our scalp.

When we reached the lion’s den, some plans were afoot, clearly, but the cats seemed to be in stealth mode. One of the youngest females in the sand-colored pride—a true survivor, according to Omega—stood up and made her way to a clearing in the distance. She was in charge, but I wouldn’t know just how much until much later. The rest of the sand-colored team—two males, two mature lionesses and a sibling of the young female in charge—waited on a low sand-colored mound by sand-colored stalks rising from sand-colored gravel. They continued to look somewhere into the distance. The two males—one from the pride and one from another—watched on from their perch, like Indian zamindars who chew betel and watch the world go by from their porch even as their serfs do their every bidding.

Chasing the lion isn’t for the meek even when you’re with a seasoned guide and tracker. Things can go wrong, as we all know only too well, whether you’re foraging for food in the bush or opening a fridge at Safeway. Omega always allayed my fears though. He told us how the interaction between humans and lions became very different when a safari vehicle was involved. Lions and other animals instinctively knew the size difference between themselves and a vehicle with occupants. We were warned to never stand up inside the vehicle or make any noise and that it was the best way to stay safe no matter what was happening around us. My husband followed orders, thank god.

If the tension on the sand-colored mound was high, that inside our jeep was higher. Something was about to go down. Around us, several jeeps hung around in an eerie silence broken every few minutes by a mad cold wind or the thrum of an engine.

Suddenly, one of the males broke into a run towards the female lead. While the second male stealthily approached the first male in a planned maneuver (with some kind of a timed delay), the three other females made their way to the clearing. Now they seemed to lead our jeeps in a procession towards the site of the kill.

Once we reached the clearing, the drama inside appalled me. Having killed an impala, the female master of operations had actually moved aside to make way for the male of her pride to savor the first taste of the kill. For the next fifteen minutes, the two males fought—tooth, nail, tongue and tail—for the entrails.

Four feet away, at a safe distance away from the arena of male fiefdom, the four women sat on their haunches waiting, watching the males in their unending, dramatic tussle over food that had been served on a golden platter by an astute, driven female.

Instead of berating and shooing the two cowardly males, the females said nothing. They did nothing. Their patience upset and maddened me. They rolled around a bit, the oldest lioness licking her paws while the smart impala sniper licked the blood on her chin from her momentary and elusive contact with impala flesh. I was appalled and furious and unable to express my shock. I sat inside the jeep fuming at the patriarchal laws enforced by the king of the jungle.