This morning the Steenbok which the sanctuary has been looking after is due to be released back into the bush. He’s a sweet boy should be able to fend for himself without being fed & watered by humans. It was a comedy of errors trying to capture him in his large enclosure…he’s an elusive little antelope. I was finally able to pick him up once he got caught in some thorn shrub. Lincoln, the Kenyan conservation officer, drove us to a dam at the far side of the reserve. I set him down on the ground in front of the waterhole and watched him bound into his new freedom. As long as he knows where to find water, he’ll be fine. Releasing orphaned or rehabbed wildlife back to where they belong is a reward far richer than anything I’ve ever been paid for. The feeling is indescribable. Lincoln nor I said a word. The silence was broken only by a slight nod of satisfaction. These are the times when I enjoy breeching etiquette and getting sentimental. The urge to throw both arms skyward and howl at the celebration of freedom is difficult to contain. And in fine Hollywood form, you secretly hope for a scripted release as the animal abruptly stops, turns and looks back over his shoulder at you with a wink, and then moves on ahead into his new life. I suppose it would be more likely (and more impressive) if the animal stopped, turned, and flipped me the bird.
Later in the day I heard that the US Embassy staff was here at Mokolodi. Figured it would be wise to go make some allies in case I find myself operating outside the margins in Botswana. They had booked a game drive and a bush braai (Afrikaans term for bbq to grill wild meat). For special VIP guests, the park will set up a cocktail reception table with fine linens, flowers, hor’deurves, and white-gloved hosts. Several of them were sipping Mimosa’s when I rolled up. The host introduced me as an American volunteering here at the park. Some of them immediately came over to talk with me and others were too busy being sucked up to by park management. There aren’t many Americans here so when you come across one you tend to stare at each other in disbelief, like two migrating wildebeest who ran the gauntlet of croc’s at the river crossing and made it safely to the other side. Before you dive into the usual small talk of what state you’re from and how friggin’ hot it is you wonder in silence if this person is in witness protection program, on the lam, or been transferred for a work assignment. Why else would an American be in Botswana? There is a small expatriate community which I have seen glimpses of at some of the pubs in town which cater to Westerners (weak drinks at stiff prices). The majority of these people are Brits and white South Africans. There is a significant Indian population and the random Chinese guy looking for a Kung Pao restaurant opportunity . Aside from these embassy folks, I haven’t met one other American. This group of Americans was definitely an odd lot. Two crackers from Texas, a Tennessee hillbilly, and two young Marines (Wisconsin & Virginia) on security detail. The embassy building is on a street patrolled heavily and barricaded by BDF (Botswana Defense Force). The compound is secured on both inner and outer walls by US Marines. (nice to see that our foreign popularity is still rising.) I wanted to ask the Houston redneck if they had requested the Botswana diplomatic post or were assigned here involuntarily. None of them seemed particularly thrilled with being stationed here but they all acknowledged how cake their lives are here. They have 30 hour work weeks, personal drivers, cooks, are provided luxurious housing, and earn generous Western salary rates. I walked away wondering if I was going to cook potatoes or instant noodles for lunch.
After lunch, a skinny old toothless local named Lawrence came looking for me. He was wearing overall’s tucked into a pair of high rubber boots, which I thought was an odd choice for the midday heat. His gait was a drunk stumble and I was later told that he does most of his heavy drinking in the morning, well pissed by 10am. We arrived at a fine patch of dirt under a tree where a freshly killed donkey was lying, rigor mortis erectus. Our cheetahs here are fed an alternating diet of donkey meat, rabbit, & chickens. Donkeys are purchased about once per month from a neighbouring village for 250 Pula (about $50). We have an in-house program which breeds & raises both rabbits and chickens. All of these meals are served dead to the cats for two reasons. First, they never learned their hunting skills from their mother and are highly inept. They may eventually stalk and kill prey but they are ineffective at delivering the quick kill. They often play and maim the prey, which was deemed cruel and unnecessary. Secondly, if they get trained to hunt, it will bring out their predator instinct and they will become unsafe for guests who come to visit them. So far, I haven’t had to do any of the murderous work yet. My time will come, though.
I have personally never witnessed the butchery of an animal, until now. It’s a sight all non-vegetarians should see. Incisions are made with a large knife up the length of the belly up to the chin. Additional cuts are made down each appendage. The skinning begins. Their hide is thick and its slow going but it separates from the flesh easier than you might imagine. Every inch is skinned except the areas below the ankles and the head. I stood there in stunned silence under the pretense that I had done this before. They weren’t buying it. These are old school hardened villagers who grew up watching their grandfathers kill every meal served to them. They seemed to take pleasure in watching the silver lining that I’ve been coddled with since birth being torn apart. Once skinned, the butchering begins. One by one, hindlegs, then forelegs, then internal organs come off. The anatomy lesson took on a whole new scent once the intestines are exposed. This is the only part of the beast to go unused. Areas with thick bone required the use of an axe. This was Lawrence’s favorite part.
He looked up at me in sheer delight with his wild-eyed toothless smile as he muscled the head of the axe into the sternum to separate it from the rib cage. Classic nutjob, this Lawrence. He provided quite the sight…leaning over the carcass wielding a knife in one hand and an axe in the other, blood dripping from both. The fuselage of this jackass was lying wide open….liver, kidneys, gall bladder, pancreas, stomach, intestines, heart, lungs…all excised. I didn’t actively participate in this slice job. The next donkey will be under the responsibility of my hack surgery.
Every inch of the donkey is used for food with the exception of the intestines. The liver, neck, rib, and leg meat go to the cheetahs. One donkey yields enough meat to sustain two cheetahs for 2 weeks. The meat is separated into plastic bags and frozen for later use. Kidneys, heart, spleen, stomach & lungs go to the croc. Vultures dine on the head. This scavenger goes into a possessed frenzy when presented lunch. His entire head & neck is plunged into the brainstem or through the eye. When he emerges, it’s not a pretty site. (For the morbid voyeurs, ask to see some zoomed in shots of the carnage when I return).
The day started so tranquil and ended so grisly. I’ve been delivered full swing from serene tenderness to gruesome carnage. So goes the human condition…..
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