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Tears of a Kudu

Every time a kudu bull comes to erf 154 in the thickly wooded Wildevy Avenue – in my book, Sabiepark’s finest road – I’m deeply grateful that I use only my camera as a hunting weapon. I can’t picture myself ever sending a bullet through such a beautiful, regal head with its majestic curved horns.

But wait, hunters! Don’t shoot! I don’t wish to pick a fight. Hunting, controlled, has a place in the preservation of our natural heritage. I don’t begrudge hunters their sport. All I wish to state, very positively, is that I, Jakob Hendrik van Deventer, will never be able to take a life, of man or beast. I may be a “cynical journalist”, but underneath beats a soft, sentimental heart.

Despite my sensitivity, a fine kudu head adorns a wall of our living room in Sabiepark, a champion trophy of a champion hunter. It was a present – and one accepted with open arms. Such a trophy does lend character to a house in the bush. And this buck was no ordinary one. Let me tell you its story.

The donor was my brother-in-law, the late Neels Nothnagel. Neels was a hunter of note. Every time he pulled the trigger, his buck fell. All head-shots. Thus it had always been. This time it was like that too. When the huge bull hit the ground, it was stone dead. Neels knelt down to inspect the kudu, proud of the accurate shot. Then he saw the large shiny tears rising in the bulging dead eyes. It slowly dribbled down the cheeks. This was too much, even for such a seasoned hunter and man’s man.

Tenderness overwhelmed my tough brother-in-law.

His shoulders started shaking. Then he cried like a kid over the life that was spilt. On the spot, there in the veld, alone with what was to be Tarlehoet’s kudu, Neels made a vow: that kudu was his very last. Goodbye, hunting, forever. He, Neels Nothnagel, would never again lift a rifle. And he kept his word. I regard it as poetic justice that particularly this trophy should adorn the wall of a non-hunter’s house.

The kudu, most regal of game to be found in Sabiepark, definitely deserves a place of honour in the annals of the Van Deventers. Let’s turn back the clock to 1998. In that year Tokkie and I for the first time attempted the hikers’ trial alone, from start to finish. Our hearts were beating a tattoo in our breasts. After 500 metres, we heard a rustling sound; the next moment we almost collided with a kudu bull. What a paragon of perfection it was in the cotton-wool softness of the late afternoon light. Motionless it stood, its eyes fixed on something we could not see. The large radar ears swept form side to side, attempting to determine the origin of the strange footfall. This chance meeting was our first real experience of the raw beauty of the hikers’ trail, and the effect on one’s emotions.

PIPPED: A young kudu bull pinches birds’ food, almost on the stoep of Tarlehoet.

On Saturday, 13 July 2002, four years later and 28 months after the devastating flood of February 2000, the hikers’ trail was eventually re-opened. Tokkie and I were among the first explorers of the new route.

We felt unprotected and almost too scared to look around. For a while we saw nothing but signs of the carnage. The remains of mutilated trees reminded one of a battlefield. Later we heard a stamping sound – then we saw movement. A kudu leapt out of the bush, right against the trail where it turns towards the river. The bull was a near replica of the first one.

Next moment we heard the thundering of hooves and saw the white tail brush skipping up and down as the “waiter” of the bush waved its white apron while speeding along.

Not all kudu incidents are well documented

One incidents provided a photo in one of our pile of Sabiepark albums. It shows a kudu couple that, for a moment, discarded their natural bashfulness. Immediately in front of us, up against the road, the bull’s urges got the better of his normal vigilance. I had my finger on the shutter in no time.

Eight months later we saw a kudu calf not far from the spot. It enjoyed a drink of mamma’s milk, stomping just like a pet lamb. Could this calf be the result of the bull’s urges? We would like to believe so. The gestation period of a kudu is 210 days. It was now eight to nine months later – enough circumstantial evidence to lead to romantic speculation.

A kudu is not easily swayed from its intentions. When love is in the air and no barriers are in the way, anything can happen. Two fiery bulls on the opposite bank of the river caused us to freeze on the spot. We immediately thought: “Hey, you’re our bulls. Why did you escape from Sabiepark? Come back, here!”

If not our bulls, why else would a small herd (mostly young cows) give such a restless performance on our side of the river? Like young girls anxious to explore the unknown. They made us worry. How long would they be able to withstand the temptation on the other side? I felt like a possessive dad who wanted to stop whatever could take place. Hopefully, they had listened carefully with those large pink ears when the dangers of life were enumerated by their mothers. After days of indecision, and holding our thumbs, the herd turned back to the safer Sabiepark. Kudus have ears, after all.

Shortly afterwards Herman and Rina le Roux were with us on a Sunday afternoon, reading the papers on our back stoep. Suddenly: thud-thud. Again: thud-thud, harder this time. We heard a series of sharp, short blows, and jumped to our feet. About 20 to 30 metres from us two kudu bulls were waging a fierce contest. With their heads close to the ground, they pushed one another in a cloud of dust. Then they disappeared into the bush.

The next day the large bull, an imposing figure with trophy horns, was alone. We felt sorry for him. But nature, like real life, has its winners and losers. One good thing, though. The fight proved that our bulls were still on home turf. Those two on the other side of the river were not Sabiepark escapees. What a relief!

When kudus fight, there is a constant fear that their horns may get locked

This causes great misery, as depicted by Hennie Potgieter’s well-known kudu statue of the “beaten victor” in Skukuza – the statue near the Park shop, which has been honed by thousands of Kruger visitors, who have climbed it to obtain a photo souvenir. It shines like satin, after all the years.

This entanglement, as depicted, is not an imaginary event. It does occur, and has happened in Sabiepark. In that particular incident the stronger one had to break the neck of the loser in order to free its own horns.

In another kudu crisis in Sabiepark, a kudu bull was nabbed by a crocodile at the picnic spot. The panic-stricken buck fought valiantly for hours. Eventually another crocodile came to the aid of its mate, and through teamwork they tired the struggling kudu. When the bull could resist no longer, they dragged his limp body down into a watery grave.

THIRSTY. A young kudu bull discovers the convenience of a bird-bath for a regular supply of pure drinking water.

A regular nuisance at Tarlehoet is having to pick up the bird-seed containers that normally hang in the black monkey-orange tree, near our waterhole. Too regular for comfort, they mysteriously fall to the ground. Just turn your back for a few minutes; sure as fate, a “baboon” – always a convenient scapegoat – or “something” pulls a container to the ground. Often the string is broken.

One day Griet made a discovery: the guilty party was not “a baboon or something”. “With her own eyes” she saw a young kudu pinching the seeds. It may sound far-fetched, even though a kudu had long ago discovered the bird-bath as a source of drinking water – a kudu is not more stupid than a zebra, blue wildebeest, duiker or warthog. And after having found the water, why would they not go for the pips?

We switched our vigilance to “high” for the next kudu visit. Presto, a few days later kudus arrived on erf 154. They had a bite here and a nibble there, wandering across our erf, eastward, in the direction of the picnic spot. One young cow dawdled a lot. Was she by any chance looking for the container that fell to the ground during the night?

Tokkie thought so. She quickly contrived a new piece of string from a shoe lace. The container was restored to its position. It immediately enticed waxbills – red and blue – but not the young cow. She had followed after her mates. We persisted, however, waiting patiently for the notorious kudu with the propensity for pips. The camera was at hand. And we did not have to wait too long.

Hardly 24 hours later, a cow walked directly to the pips. The same one. At the monkey-orange tree she stopped and stood motionless, like a statue. When she was satisfied that she was properly blending with the shrubbery, her long tongue emerged. She took two quick swipes. The food container was empty. Evidently, she was blissfully unaware that the characteristic splash of “war paint” across her nose – like a Red Indian, Tokkie said – was giving her game away to us.

Reclining on the swimming pool chair, I took several photos. Madam Kudu concentrated so much on the snacks, that the clicks did not bother her. She rounded off her meal with a few mouthfuls of water. Then she quietly walked away, quite nonchalantly, to rejoin her companions. Now we also knew of this strange kudu habit. We had proof to silence any doubting Thomas.

To our surprise, for quite some time the availability of the pips remained the secret of that one cow. Then came Chris van Rensburg’s “bird restaurant”, which enabled a lot of birds – and two kudus at a time – to feed together. Soon the “restaurant” became an added attraction for the kudus, even though a kudu tongue is a bit wide for the small openings leading to the pips. But never underestimate the resourcefulness of a sweet-toothed kudu. One lady soon mastered the art of folding her tongue almost double. Eureka! It slipped in! Others followed her example.

Soon refreshments at the Van Deventers were on the kudu menu twice a day. Every morning and evening the kudus arrived. They would go to the seed containers quite openly, and fold their tongues double. Soon the pips were going like hot cakes. Even the old patriarch set aside his dignity, and joined the line. We, on the stoep, watched silently. We were afraid to move. The kudus seemed happy with our proximity, however. In the beginning, the moment I picked up the camera, they seemed to retreat – just a little. But now they were calm and contented. From my shelter behind the beam on the stoep, I could snap away as much as I wanted to.