The Mokolodi Operations Manager sent us on a donkey run today. Its time to restock the meat freezer with cheetah food. We fired up an old flatbed truck, it coughed up a black exhaust plume, and we putted away down a rough dirt road to the next village. I thought it was odd that there wasn’t a rifle in the truck but I assumed Sekudube (the ranger that I was with) would just borrow one from the village to kill it with. We bought the largest ass we could find for 200 Pula ($50). There was a half-hearted negotiation but it seemed both parties knew what the ultimate price would be. The owner kept pointing out how big its hocks were. Sekudube insisted he was small for his age. They just needed to go through the motions. But the next motion that came down scarred me. Cash was passed, change was arranged and the donkey was led out of the corral and towards our truck. In a moment of distraction, I looked back at the former donkey owner to see if he was pleased with his sale. When I looked back at Sekudube, he had both arms raised over his head clutching a sledgehammer and he brought it down on the head of the donkey before I had time to cringe. A crushing blow between the eyes which stunned the donkey and brought it down. A second blow in the same spot rendered it unconscious. At that moment, although physically catatonic, my brain engaged my internal search engine using keyword “sentimental killing”, trying to retrieve a comment that Emmanuel, our conservation officer from Tanzania, had told me weeks earlier about death. But before my mind could deliver that thought to my mouth, Sekudube pulled out a machete and slit its throat. Evidently, death comes from blood loss, not from blunt force trauma to the head. We hoisted this poor beast onto the truck, roped its legs to the cab, and drove off with blood spilling off the bumper. I sat in silence in the passenger seat wondering what it would be like to die in such a heinous way. And then it came to me. Emmanuel had warned me not to grimace or show any outward indication of disapproval when someone is killing an animal. It’s considered a sign of disrespect because you are inadvertently inferring that the ranger is doing something wrong (ie. acting without honor, not breaking the law). My own selective sentimentality regarding death of animals must be shelved to yield to the reality of African village life. This is how it’s done and has been done for centuries. Why am I more emotionally affected by the killing of a rabbit than of a chicken? Are they not residents of the same planet who both deserve an equal chance at life? The hypocrisy of cute. I need to revisit this thought later, once my green sheen has worn off.
While on routine field patrol today, the trackers found a placenta in the bush on the far side of the reserve. Fifty yards further they stumbled upon the inaugural resident, a baby white rhino. Our elder female Tshuku had given birth yesterday, raising our white rhino herd count to 11. Although mom wouldn’t let anyone near her newborn, it was estimated at about 100 pounds and looked healthy (six fingers, six toes, 2 horns!). This birth is significant in many respects. Rhino’s (both Black & White species) enjoy the highest levels of government protection from poaching or hunting. If caught killing one of them, the Botswana penalty is a $25,000.00 fine and/or 15 years prison time. By comparison, the fine for killing another endangered species, the cheetah, is $2,500.00 and/or 5 years prison. The BDF (Botswana’s Army) is heavily involved in anti-poaching has an entire squadron assigned to it. Last year in the Okavango Delta, a rhino was found dead with its horns cut off. The following day, a BDF helicopter descended onto a village nearby and landed in the front yard of some poor shepherd. In full commando gear with automatic weapons drawn, they surrounded his hut. After entering his place, they found 2 rhino horns under his bed. He pled ignorant, insisting he had no idea how they got there. “Uh, well, Sargeant, the rhino must have just walked into my bedroom when I was sleeping, sawed off his own horns, kicked them under my bed and then walked out.” Microchip identity cards, inserted by scientists inside the horn, led authorities to the trophy.
These prehistoric looking armored tanks fetch big money on the game farming market. They go for minimum $50,000.00 each and are often traded between sanctuaries & reserves to keep the gene pools viable. White Rhino’s aren’t white at all. It was a bastardization of the name original Dutch name “weid”, meaning wide to indicate the size of their mouth compared to Blacks. Both species are actually the same shade of gray-brown. But the White is a pure grazer (squared mouth for grass eating) and larger while the Black is a browser (hook-lipped mouth for tree leaves), smaller, but more aggressive. Both have two horns. For the time being.
Unfortunately, it’s too-little-too-late for the plight of the rhino. They are literally on the brink of total extinction. During the 70’s, the Arab demand for traditional dagger handles made of horn in Yemen wrote the death certificate for the Black Rhino. My sworn enemy, the traditional Asian medicine market, sealed the envelope and mailed it. Afterall, we must ensure that every flaccid noodle in Shang Hai can get a stiffie. (Hasn’t Viagra penetrated the Far East yet? Do they still need to use tiger bone, shark fin, & rhino horn to cure their impotence? I suppose its more impressive to order a cup of shark fin soup when fine dining with a geisha girl at a corporate dinner in a Toyko skyscraper). Black Rhino populations plummeted from 65,000 in 1970 to 2,500 today and they are on the red list of critically endangered species. There are only 4 in Botswana. White Rhino numbers currently stand at about 5,000 (there are only 70 in Botswana) and share a spot lower down the red list. There are three other species of rhino in Asia, whose numbers are even worse than Africa. I suppose this is due to the fact that there are less anti-poaching controls in Asia, its more accessible than Africa, and its closer to the final marketplace for transport. The one-horned Indian rhino (which I had the fortune to see during my trip there in 2001) exists in Assam, Bengal, & Nepal and has about 2000 left. The Sumatran rhino has about 200 individuals existing primarily in Sumatra with small scattered numbers in Malaysia, Thailand, Myanmar, & Borneo. The Javan rhino exists in Indonesia & Vietnam with a mere 50 – 70 individuals left.
I work with two remarkable ladies here at the sanctuary who have been here for over 7 years. Mmamarapelo basically runs this place as she knows precisely when the cheetahs will wake up from naps and when the rabbits have to piss. Her knowledge of animals (and especially birds) is impressive being that none of it was learned from books in school. Just living in the bush out in a rural village, just watching & listening. Nature may appear daunting & complex, but if you have the patience & discipline to let it come to you, allowing all five senses to absorb and interpret everything happening around you, she’s actually quite simple. Everything happens for a reason and is done with intent. Very little remains random and all of it is interconnected. Species don’t survive for thousands of years without serious evolutionary skills. Every decision made affects their survival, from which trees produce the most nutritious pods, to finding the water holes during drought, to following migration routes, to knowing which roots are toxic, to sensing the presence of predators, to the best hiding spots to ambush prey, to finding fresh shoots of grass by following the rains, to knowing where to dig for worms & insects, to how to regulate body temperature during weather extremes, etc. Their adaptations are phenomenal and much more impressive to me than any technology mankind can invent. Drop an animal into an unfamiliar territory to fend for itself and it will most likely survive, using a much higher tolerance for deprivation and its highly developed instincts. Drop a human into an unfamiliar territory and, despite his intellect, he would most likely perish.
Mmamarapelo (who has been re-dubbed “Mama Raps”) epitomizes the struggles facing rural villagers across the globe. Her plight is familiar to millions who live at or below the poverty line. She has 6 kids and the 7th is currently being warmed up in the oven. She lives in Mokolodi village (where many staff members of the reserve live) and must walk 2 miles each morning at 6am to catch our labor truck which picks everyone up at 6:45am in the village and shuttles them to the park. At the end of the workday, she walks back to her hut from the drop point. There is no electricity there and she uses paraffin oil to light the place. She doesn’t earn enough money to use gas the entire month for cooking. When it runs out midway thru the month, she burns wood. There is no running water in the house nor any indoor plumbing. The toilet is a drop pit 50 yards from the house. She must walk with a donkey cart a few miles to fetch water and fuel wood. There is obviously no refrigeration. She cannot afford to buy meat. She raises goats and when her body requires meat, slaughters one for dinner. The other woman I work with, Theresa, has 4 kids (one died). She faces the same living conditions. They both toil extremely hard and are strong as an ox. If I can’t lift something, Theresa handles it and humiliates me with a good-natured smirk. Many staff here ask me to lend them money (which few of them plan to pay back). Usually only $5 bucks or less. Although I did it early on, people take advantage so I have stopped. Mama Raps & Theresa are too proud to ask even though I see them scrambling for change worth about half of one cent. I want to help them so badly but feel handouts would be insulting. Instead, when I go to the market, I bring them back staples like sugar, flour, salt, tea. Even the most impoverished can afford dignity.
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