Lioness in the Maasai Mara
Cathleen
Giannetta
Runner-up 2022 Animal Story
©
Copyright 2021 by Cathleen Giannetta
|
Photo by the author. |
My
husband and I traveled to Amboseli and the Maasai Mara in Kenya in
October 2019, just before the recognition of the
COVID-19 pandemic.
This story is one of many amazing experiences we had with the help of
experienced guides.
Not
far from the dirt road, in the shade of a sausage tree, the lioness
sat perfectly still with an air of calm, but also with a sense of
command that perhaps resulted from the tension in her muscles that
gave an impression of high alert. She was magnificent, but in the
jeep truck, my husband and I, as well as our guide, were
disappointed. The Kenyan guide, Jacob Otete, had driven the jeep
here on a tip from his safari tourist-pleasing network in Kenya’s
Maasai Mara that a lioness was here, having given birth to cubs a few
weeks ago, but the lioness was alone.
Lions,
Jacob Otete had told us, were very discreet and moved away from the
pride to “do toilet,” to mate, and to give birth, so
there was nothing unusual about a mother and new cubs being separated
from the pride. There also was nothing unusual about a solitary
lioness out to hunt with rests in between—that was her usual
job. But Jacob Otete saw immediately that it was
unusual. The lioness, he pointed out in the hushed tones we now knew
to expect on game drive stops, had swollen mammary glands, evidence
that she was nursing, but he puzzled over the absence of cubs.
Jacob
Otete had expertly positioned the jeep directly in front of the
lioness and turned off the engine. The lioness sat quietly in the
jeep’s presence for several minutes assessing the situation and
considering her options, as later became obvious. The minutes were
silent, save for some bird calls and the occasional click of my
camera shutter. Jacob Otete suddenly whispered with urgency, “Can
you hear it?” as the lioness let out a long, weird, guttural
call in a register so low we easily could have missed it were it not
for the guide.
A
small lion cub, and then a second, scrambled out of a gulley in front
of the lioness that seemed to run parallel to the road, deep enough
to hide the cubs and narrow enough to be camouflaged by the long
savannah grass. The two assaulted their mother with tumbling dives
onto her unflappable self. She began to lick them clean as a third
cub struggled out.
Jacob
Otete had by then had recognized the lioness’s dilemma and, in
low tones, set the stage for us, useless but attentive, to observe
the unfolding drama. To the right of the lions, as viewed from the
jeep, were outcroppings of rock and a stand of higher brush that
separated the lions from two cape buffalo, animals too enormous for
the lioness to challenge. Jacob Otete told us that it would take
five lionesses to bring down even an elderly cape buffalo. He also
said a cape buffalo unquestionably would kill a young lion cub not
for food, but out of malice. From the point of view of cape buffalo,
the world would be a better place with one less lion in it.
For
my husband and I in the jeep, it was like looking into a giant
dollhouse at two giant rooms with occupants who could not see each
other: the enormous but still oblivious buffalo on the right, and
the fiercely maternal and highly aware lioness with her cubs on the
left. Compounding the situation was a precipice to the left of the
lions, too dangerous for the cubs to negotiate.
And
so her problem was clear. There was no way to move her cubs to
safety without crossing in front of the cape buffalo. And even if
successful, across the road was open savannah with very little cover.
The occasional acacia tree dotted the grasslands, but the roots of
these trees exude a poison to “discourage” other acacia
trees from growing nearby, including those from their own seeds,
making for wide open spaces between trees. Only a short time ago,
when these events occurred, this seemed like aggression on the part
of the trees, but now maybe seems like social distancing. The
result, in any event, was an unforgivingly open landscape for the
lioness to try to herd her cubs to safety. Interestingly, in a few
more weeks, according to Jacob Otete, such safety concerns would be
moot because the cubs would take on the strong smell of lion and they
would be given deference by any other animal.
The
lioness went into motion. We watched with awe and deep concern (at
least on the part of myself and my husband) as she nudged the cubs
back into the gulley and disappeared into it herself after them. We
three scanned the scene for sight of the lions, my husband and I more
anxiously than Jacob Otete whose knowledge of the interactions among
the local species gave him a broader perspective. Finally, all the
way to the right of the jeep where the gulley widened and was visible
from the road, and directly in front of the cape buffalo, the three
cubs variously scrambled or popped out (as if tossed) onto the grass,
their mother behind and vigilant. She looked toward the perilously
close buffalo who were faced in other directions munching, and then
quickly led her cubs across the road, doubling back behind the jeep.
Jacob Otete silently put a finger to his lips, and we carefully
turned to the opposite side of the truck with the realization that
the lioness was using the truck as cover so she could at least get a
head start with her cubs and get far enough away so that the cape
buffalo would not even bother to pursue.
The
lioness scanned one last time for danger behind her and then turned
her attention to the jeep, giving a fierce warning look to my camera,
making it crystal clear that we were not to blow her cover by leaving
too soon or do anything else to foil her plans. (See photo!)
Jacob
Otete and my husband and I, his amazed charges, happily sat for a
while watching the lions move across the savannah and up a hill, the
small cubs struggling to make it to and over the crest, as if
climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro.
I live in a suburb of NYC
with my husband. I have
two adult sons. I work as a trial attorney and I am a partner
at a national law firm. I also volunteer for the Wildlife
Conservation Society.
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