Hippos Discovered New Pastures In Sabiepark

After the boundary fence was washed downriver in 2000, the hippos discovered new pastures in Sabiepark. Nightly expeditions took them as far as the office complex on the northern side, along the road to Kruger Gate. For u it may seem like an unnecessary chore to walk such a long distance for food. It is, however, quite understandable, if one considers the feeding pattern and formidable needs of the animal. A load of grass of 130 kilograms is an average portion for a mature hippo.

An individual discovery, with the compliments of Johan and Mariza, was the “observatory” along our driveway. When they invited us to visit it, one evening after supper, we had no idea what they had in mind. We soon discovered that one should sling a garden chair over one’s shoulder, and walk halfway down the driveway. At one spot there was an open space among the trees. From there, one could enjoy the beauty of the Bushveld firmament with boundless amazement and wonder.

Hippo manure

One discovery led to another. Less than a metre from that strategic observation post, Tokkie noticed some fresh manure the following morning. Scattered manure. Hippo manure! An adventurous loner evidently came looking for grass right up against the stoep of Tarlehoet. His journey of discovery must have been before or after our starry experience. We could have just missed him by minutes. Wow!

Even the uninitiated, can easily recognise the manure of a hippo. The texture immediately reveals which huge “factory” had produced it. And no other animal fans its excrement over such a wide area. Not without reason, according to a bush legend, told us by Annatjie Strydom of Rustig. Here is her story: “King Lion scolded Hippo for loitering in the water all day. ‘You eat up all our fish.’ ‘Oh, no, King Lion,’ the Hippo replied, ‘I don’t eat fish. I remain in the water to protect my skin against the scorching sun. My food is plants and grass.’ King Lion remained sceptical. ‘That I would like to see,’ he roared. ‘You would only convince me one way. When you leave the water and excrete, you must swing your tail from side to side. The manure must be scattered behind you. In this way I would be able to see whether there were any fish bones.’ Hippo was an obedient servant. Sometimes, only sometimes, however, he becomes somewhat lazy. When the king is not near, he will relieve himself in the water. Fishes must have food too, and the water plants thrive on the natural fertilizer.”

Well, Mr. Hippo did not tell lies about the why’s and wherefore’s of his preference for water. It is, indeed, as he had explained, for protection. For those times that he has to spend out of the water, his body produces its own built-in sun block. A sticky, thick, reddish liquid is excreted by the sweat pores, which made people of antique Greece believe that the “river horse” (as they named him”) literally sweated blood.

In fact, this liquid contains other skin pigments that protect the thick hairless skin – from which an excellent sjambok can be made – against the ultraviolet rays of the sun. Yes, the hippo must perspire. And sun worshippers of the two-legged type, take note: “hippo sweat” is a natural sun crème, with antibiotic properties which are also very suitable for human use. This much Japanese scientists discovered. But now the bad news – it is smelly.

Hippos threaten not only humans

They are destructive fighters within their own ranks. If a dominant bull in a herd is challenged, he fights for his status – and the erotic “perks” it entails – like a creature possessed. Such a fight becomes a feud to the death, accompanied by bloodcurdling noises. The sound of “trombones” during such a battle seems able to wake the dead.

The worst part of a fight occurs on the ground. They do tackle one another just below the surface of the water at times. A hippo is like a fish in the water; swimming is second nature to it. In addition, it can run on the river bed, as fast as a man can walk on dry land. It can hold its breath under water for up to six minutes. And can it yawn! Its mighty jaws can open up to 120 centimetres. Often such a yawn indicates aggression. Fighters intimidate one another by showing their teeth. But their bite is even worse than their yawn. When those jaws close, blood will stream. Call them Jaws, if you like, the name is apt.

One can be confused by the din which erupts during a fight. Game wardens believe in the bush there is no noise like it. One evening at dusk, Tokkie and I sent dozens of sms’s to all and sundry about the terrific “lion roars” at our doors. We thought the “lions” were feasting on Tarlehoet’s stoep. The next morning, we heard from the late Sipho at the picnic spot that it had not been lions at all. A hippo fight erupted on a sandbank. After a violent scrap, the loser ran away.

Later that day, Tokkie and I saw a lone dark body across the river from the lookout platform. At first, Tokkie thought it was a rhino. Then we realised that it was a single hippo. It walked slowly and with apparent discomfort along the S3 towards the east, then swerved and disappeared into the bush on the right Through binoculars, we observed fresh wounds on its head and rump, which left little doubt that it was the loser in the fight. Fortunately, for a hippo with a wound, that special sun block is a miracle ointment. Even in the dirtiest water a wound seldom goes septic.

That night, the din was even worse. It lasted forever and a day. The bush arena became a madly rowdy place. Long before sunrise, Tokkie and I took the Bosbus and drove up and down Wildevy Avenue, trying to discover the origin of the noisy growling and snoring. Even though we had experienced a hippo fight barely 24 hours before, we were still uncertain. Could it not be lion this time? But, no, it wasn’t lion. It was hippo again! Sipho confirmed the fact.

The dethroned leader that had been humiliated by a young contender, would evidently not accept his loss of status. He licked his wounds for only one day. Then he returned to fight for his honour. Tokkie suspected the second fight was to the death. Some of the sounds were like “death cries of an animal on its last legs”, she thought. We did not see the loner again.

Hard exteriors often hide soft natures. We have reason to believe that in the case of the hippo it is also true, especially in respect of smaller animals. The strange friendship between a hippo, called Betsie, and an energetic bull mastiff dog, Tiger, at Lawaaidraai between Marble Hall and Roedtan, made the daily newspapers years ago. Every day Betsie and Tiger met and frolicked together in the river. When little ones are in danger, the hippo displays a death-defying protective urge and rushes to their aid.

One morning, a drama unfolded which had the picnic spot in commotion. Sabieparkers were watching a crocodile hiding motionlessly in the shallow water – so typical of these reptiles. An impala came to drink. The moment it bent its neck, the crocodile struck. The struggling impala was dragged under the water. Immediately, a second crocodile appeared and got hold of a leg. The two reptiles struggled fiercely. Then a young hippo arrived on the scene. It used its head to knock the crocodiles away from the impala. At that critical moment, a further six hippos bounced like corks out of the water. They attacked the crocodiles and tried to push them away. After a struggle, the crocs disappeared behind the reeds with their prey. The hippo followed. How the confrontation ended, no-one knows.

For sensitive game viewers the invisibility of the final scene was probably to the good. Nature can be cruel. André Visagie once saw two crocodiles having a tug-of-war over an impala – at the very same picnic spot. Right in front of her eyes, one of the crocs got hold of the buck in its massive jaws, while a second one grasped the hindquarters. They pulled and jerked for dear life. Then, as on a given signal, they almost stood erect, their forequarters completely out of the water. They gave the carcass a twist, and the impala tore in two. The skin was ripped open like an old rag. André saw the body break-up in two. One attacker disappeared under the water with its half. The other one took its dinner into the reeds. Then, silence. This bloody sight made André quite nauseous.

Tokkie and I have our own story about a little buck and a crocodile. A mischievous Chris van Rensburg will not stop teasing Tokkie about it: “Tell us again of the lions and the leopard and the wild dogs and hyenas and elephants and hippo and the buck and the crocodile.” A grievous exaggeration! Wild dogs don’t feature at all, neither hyenas nor elephants nor hippo. There were lions, yes. And a leopard. And impala. And monkeys. And a crocodile.

The scene was a verdant drinking place on the Sabie River, on the Salitje Road between Skukuza and Lower Sabie in the Kruger. The time: winter 1973. Tokkie and I had been sitting for hours, watching the ridge where alert spotters had seen the tail of a leopard moving. We waited in vain. The next day, the lovely shady trees enticed us to return, hoping we would see our first leopard. Together with the occupants of four or five other cars, we watched the antics of monkeys. For a while nothing happened. Then impala started coming down to the water. A large herd. Slowly, cautiously, they came. Suddenly the monkeys became restless. They chattered hysterically – a chorus of deep alarm. The impala got a fright and scattered. “Look there!” Tokkie called, and pointed at a leopard storming in from the right. “Look there!” I shouted, almost simultaneously, and pointed at three lions coming from behind a sand embankment.

The frightened impala took a short cut. One leapt up and over the bonnet of a car parked next to our blue Fiat. Another one kicked in the one front door of the same car. On their heels came the lions. A not very sensible daredevil, who had climbed on the roof of his car with a cine-camera, sat immobilized as one of the predators flashed past him. While we craned our necks, we heard a mighty splash. We spun around. In the river a crocodile had an impala in a death-hold. Seconds later – believe it or not – the lions came back on their tracks. They sidled past the cars – with the photographer still on the roof.

After a few seconds, the crocodile disappeared with his catch. The lions were not visible behind the embankment any longer. The leopard was nowhere to be seen. And the monkeys had gone deathly silent. Had nothing happened?

Like hippo, crocodiles can become adventurous and go out to discover new worlds. One such a journey frightened George Lourens out of his wits. Lourens could not believe his eyes at what he saw: two rough eyelids above the water at his Sabiepark waterhole. In the early years of the park, an erstwhile owner whose identity is not known, had an even bigger fright. When he opened a window of his house, he heard a loud smacking sound. It was not the window collapsing, but a crocodile, four metres long, which had closed its jaws a few centimetres from his face.

I have been spared close-up experiences like that. On the one hand, I’m grateful. On the other hand, it denied me the opportunity to avail myself of the facial features of a crocodile. I could not even try to explain the origin of the expression “crocodile tears”. Only recently did I watch a crocodile’s face closely through a powerful pair of binoculars. The dark “tear” streaks under its eyes were unmistakable.

I have developed the habit of running to Tarlehoet’s bookshelf whenever I come across something new in nature. “The tear glands of a crocodile secrete a lot of liquid while it eats”, I read. Ok, I have to bow to that expert’s superior knowledge. But I believe there must be some truth in the explanation of “crocodile tears” by Photius, the patriarch of Constantinople, in the 9th century BC. Photius said a crocodile makes a sound like a crying child. In this way it lures its prey. Such hypocrisy, duplicity and heartless underhandedness are characteristics I would expect of a sly crocodile.