Cats are easily the most successful killers on this planet. Present company excepted.
Dogs; not so much.
Dogs tend to be scavengers and eat socks, underwear and poops. But not Wild Dogs. Maybe that’s due to the lack of underwear in the savannah, but maybe also due to their social interaction and organisational skills. This makes them powerful hunters.
Social interaction is something cats really aren’t good at. Just try stroking their belly.
We were at the Kwando Lagoon Camp in northern Botswana to try to see these dogs in action. I had seen them hunt over ten years ago in Botswana, I was desperate to see them again.
That first afternoon did not give us enough time to start our hunt, so we stopped off to watch the attempts at social interaction of some of the local cats.
It usually ends in tears.
That evening, we dined with two of the staff and one other guest. There was also another couple, who were on honeymoon but had been whipped away to dine alone, or whatever it is that honeymooners get up to.
This lone man was in the banking trade, his job was to help sort out crises. This man must be made of stern stuff I thought.
After an hour of listening to his bigoted diatribes (not an unusual occurrence on safari) we were rescued by a distant alarm.
The honeymooners were in trouble.
One of the staff rushed off, leaving us to guess on what might be happening. Then, a second alarm, then a third. This was getting serious. The last member of staff rushed off leaving the three of us, Annick, myself and the intrepid banker, alone.
The banker was getting nervous. “We need somewhere safe in case...” he cried, and left to find such a place. Now remember, we were in the middle of absolutely nowhere, with access only by plane or canoe. After a quick nervous search, he came back with the news that the upstairs library room was the least safe place, as it only had one way in or out, making it easy for us to be cornered by... whatever was out there.
We tried to calm him with tales of crocodile attacks, but nothing seemed to work.
Eventually the staff came back, to find us with a wreck of a banker muttering something about heath and safety. The emergency had been just a leaking faucet, that one of the honeymooners had tried to stop with part of his anatomy...
The next morning we set off at the usual ungodly hour. It was a hot and tired start to the day.
With our spotter perched precariously on the front of the bonnet of our truck, we sped off in the direction the dogs were last seen three days previously. After initial excitement at seeing what turned out to be hyena prints, the hours started to stretch thinly. We passed through several stark forests, filled with dead trees. Spooky.
The heat was mounting, along with our despair. Then, after four hours of nowt but elephant crap, our spotter leapt off his hazardous seat. It was not, as suspected, an attempt at suicide. If he had smiled any wider, the top of his head would have dropped off.
Wild Dog tracks.
The guide and his spotter searched around the open area for a clue as to which direction the dogs had gone in. We sat there in the open truck becoming hotter and sleepier and, in the banker’s case, more nervous. We were stuck there. No escape, no protection, no Health & Safety Regulations poster.
We survived.
Finally, we set off once more, this time with hopes raised.
Two hours later there was still no sign of the elusive dogs. “How about rattling a box of dog biscuits?” I suggested.
Things were looking grim. Grim looking things were everywhere. Our consciousness was beginning to slip, when suddenly we had some luck.
On entering a small stand of trees in search of shelter from the beating sun (we had pretty much given up on the dogs) we heard a deep rumbling “Ho Hum” coming from a large and ancient tree.
It was, of course, an Ent, a tree herder from ancient times. He spoke in a deep rumbling voice in exactly the way that trees usually don’t. “I am Bay O’Bab, sapling of Treebeard” he thus spoke, before describing in detail his long lineage.
“Jesus” we weapt.
We finally manage to ask if he had seen wild dogs recently. The gist of his answer was “Yay and verisomely thrice yay. T’was but a meagre passaging of time past.”
Meagre? 500 years or so.
We made our excuses (along the lines of “Oh great and wearisome one! We must be fleet of foot and fly sharpish for the head doctor”) and left to add some more alcohol to our addled brains.
That afternoon we relaxed safely back in camp, although our ‘crisis expert’ seemed concerned that he was being watched...
We then spent a couple of hours relaxing on the river.
That evening’s sundowner drinks treated us with yet another stunning sunset
The night drive back to camp was not without excitement. These guys really know their job. We spotted serval, genet, spring hare, honey badgers and wild cat, all in the same evening. This contrasted with the previous camps that did not use spotters, but instead drove wildly through the dark savannah waving a light around as if demented.
And so to the last full day. Our last chance to see Wild Dogs.
Well, that morning went in a similar vien to the previous one. Endless driving, endless heat, with added giraffes
but with no added Wild Dogs.
Once more the unforgiving heat beat against us, and once more drowsiness started to overcome us. I began to realise that my head was maybe losing its grip on sanity on seeing this fox.
Something was clearly wrong with reality.
And then we saw a strange disturbance on a river’s bank. Fairies!
We asked them if they’d seen any wild dogs, but they were in party mode, flying hither and thither like a flock of birds.
Once more, we asked if wild dogs were to be seen, but they just carried on partying.
Typical fairies.
And so; failure. We headed back to camp where, as is often the case, there was more wildlife to see than on the game drive. We spent the afternoon watching elephants cross the river. As one does...
The sun went down on our hunt for dogs. Elephants would have to do instead.
Our adventure was coming to an end. We had seen all the cats that Africa has to offer, but no Wild Dogs.
Some of the local wildlife seemed somewhat scornful.
And so to the last full stomach...
and the final sunset.
The next morning, during our trip to the airstrip ready for our 10,000 kilometre homeward flights, we stopped to say fairwell to this most magnificent King of all Beasts.
The end of another great safari.
Shame about the wild dogs.
I guess that means that we’ll just have to go back....
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