The Bally Vaughan lion who lost his roar

October 22, 2009 by Happy Brenda ·
Filed under: Travel Tales, Zimbabwean diaries

Courtesy of The Bally Vaughan Sanctuary News October 2009

It is eleven pm at the Bally Vaughan Sanctuary and twelve hours since I returned from my honeymoon. As our trucks come home from a day-long mission sourcing food for the animals, the throb of the diesel engines mask the ubiquitous night chorus of a thousand syncopating crickets and tree frogs. Three massive cow carcasses need to be processed immediately; dinner for two weeks for our many predators at the Sanctuary, and as I help load sacks of meat onto on of our elderly, rust-riddled wheel-barrows, I watch my French-manicured fingernails flick off one by one into the gore.

At 2am I fall into bed, only to be woken an hour later by the frantic ringing of the cowbell on my gate. A gigantic python has just seized a goat on the other side of the river. We race down to the water’s edge and see the python half out of the water, with a still-writhing goat clamped between its jaws. As we approach, it sinks beneath the surface, pulling the goat with it and we spend the next hour thrashing about in the freezing cold water trying, to no avail, to locate and rescue the goat.

There is no hot water due to a power cut and as I sluice mud, snails and slime out of my hair with a jug of cold water I watch my mangled finger nails turn blue. The honeymoon really is over!

When you consider how I met my husband, it is a miracle that we ever got this far. Several years ago, a newly qualified vet, Vinay Ramlaul, came to work at Dr Trace and Associates Veterinary Surgery, where I was a freqent and no doubt infuriating client. At that stage of my life I only had domestic cats. Arriving home from work one day I found one of my cats in the driveway, convulsing and yowling excrutiatingly. I arrived at the veterinary surgery at their busiest time and burst into the reception area screeching, “Emergency! My cat is dying! My cat is dying! I need a vet immediately!” Shoving my way past all the other patiently waiting clients, I accosted Dr Ramlaul as he came out of the consulting room and thrust my pet into his arms. “Save her!” I shrieked, “She’s dying!”. Dr Ramlaul backed into the consulting room (I think he was too frightened to turn his back to me) and I followed, literally treading on his feet in my determination not to let the cat out of my sight. It was at this stage that I realised I had lost a shoe somewhere in the mad melee of my arrival but there was absolutely no way I was leaving the cat and going to look for it, so I hobbled into the consulting room and hovered on one leg over the examining table like some sort of manic sea bird while Dr Ramlaul looked at the cat. A few moments later he raised his head and gazed at me in some consternation. “Miss Carter,” he murmured.
“Dr Ramlaul!” I gasped.
“Erm, your cat is in season……..”
Even to this day I can recall the terrible red tide of mortification that roared through me, sticking my hair to my head with the cold sweat of utter idiocy, as I seized my cat and lurched back out into the reception, throwing my best laser death glare at my transfixed audience as I tried to muster some sort of sang froid, hopping on one foot trying to put back on the shoe the smirking receptionist silently handed to me over the counter whilst holding my completely healthy cat under one arm. Tossing my hair back I began to stalk towards the exit.
“Er, Miss Carter?” came the voice of Dr Ramlaul
“Dr Ramlaul?” I enquiredicily, one eyebrow raised haughtily.
“You haven’t paid your bill.”

I am sure if he had known that a few years later I would have a sanctuary of over 200 animals in my care, he would have left the veterinary profession without a backward glance.

Now I live with 3 caracals and as one of our volunteers said recently, regarding the chewed and torn wreckage of yet another piece of furniture, “It’s hard to have anything nice.” The purchase of a couch made of iron means I have somewhere to sit now after the very unpleasant incident where the caracals quietly removed the innards of the last couch and as I sat down with my morning cup of coffe the whole precarious structure gave way and I crashed to the floor. As well as believing that I should be happy lying on the floor, the caracals are also believe that any food prepared in the house should be for their consumption only. Most mornings Harry the caracal either drinks the milk out of my cereal or licks the topping off my toast, resulting in yet another meal rendered inedible. This despite the fact that he is served a bowl of (warmed) milk and a scoop of yoghurt each morning too. His most heinous act of sabotage yet occurred on Monday morning, supposedly my day off, when he stepped off the edge of the kitchen sink onto the handle of a pan full of tomatoe and tuna sauce. His weight flicked the pan backwards off the stove, sending a wave of pungent, oily, indelible red liquid across the kitchen, all over me and him, the windows, the cupboards, the appliances…I even had a piece of onion in my ear.

As I applied a hosepipe to the slimy morass on the kitchen floor, my hair plastered to my head with tomato sauce, dresed in knickers and gum boots, alternately cursing and sobbing with self pity, I reflected grimly that no one will ever mistake me for a happy homemaker with gingham kitchen curtains and a line full of super-white washing.

Recently we have given sanctuary to a lion, three owls, a flock of pigeons and a family of ducks, a vociferous group of chickens with fabulously frilly feathers and a Goffin cockatoo. Margaret the sheep gave birth to a daughter amid much drama. Flea Freel, one of our volunteers, and I were the presiding midwives and Margaret had only been in labour half an hour before we were both completely hysterical because of the terrible pain she seemed to be experiencing. Deciding that our attempts to get Margaret to employ Lamaze breathing techniques were not working, we prepared the truck for an emergency rush to town whilst I shrieked down the phone to Dr Ramlaul, “Yes, I know she’s in labour, but she’s in agony! This cant be right! We need to do an emergency Caesarean!” Eventually we were persuaded by Dr Ramlaul, and Farai the night guard at the Sanctuary, that excruciating pain over a long period of time is actually quite normal during labour and Margaret eventually gave birth to a beautiful daughter, Molly. Charlotte the donkey produced the divine baby Angelo shortly afterwards; another traumatic experience for us all as the foal was stuck! ‘Charlotte was attacked by a crocodile on the Mazowe river several years ago and the resulting scar tissue made it impossible for her to give birth on her own. Fortunately her great trust in us meant that she sought out the staff and allowed them to ease the baby out. We are also bottle-feeding the nefarious Frankie the Goat whose extreme cunning sees him receiving at least twice as many bottles as he is entitled to on any given day.

Two puppies found their way to the Sanctuary, one found cowering behind the hyena pen and the other tangled in our game fence. Both were starving, terrified and filthy. Both are classic examples of the Buffet Dog ie: a little bit of everything, with long tails and spectacularly big ears and the wonderful nature common to these dogs. Meisie now lives the high life in Harare; the proud owner of two pink, padded baskets and a set of red plastic dinnerware and Rover is still at the Sanctuary, swimming and sunbathing and hunting lizards in between dodging random assaults from the owls and the mongooses and being carried about by doting volunteers.

Many of our animals owe their lives to the vets and staff at the Twenty Four Hour Veterinary Surgery. Without this facility the Sanctuary would not function. Their dedicated and donated care of our many animals and birds, so many of whom come to us sick or injured, gives these creatures the chance for healthy, happy lives that they so deserve.

Nduna the lion arrived in May. Contained in a travel cage and covered with a tarpaulin, my first introduction to Nduna was the sight of his tail, hanging forlornly over the side of the truck. The magnificent black ‘brush’ that lions usually sport at the tip of their tail was missing. In its place was a sparse, orange wisp of fur. The rest of his malnourished form was revealed when we removed the tarp; pressure sores on his haunches and wounds and scars on his face, one ear torn and tattered from an old wound, his ribs and backbone in sharp relief under his dull yellow fur. Our plan was to put Nduna with our lone lioness, the indomnitable and supremely beautiful Kadiki but Kadiki has always been a princess before she is a lioness(and has the blonde highlights and buffed nails to prove it), and we were unsure of her reaction to sharing her space and her possessions with another lion so we put Nduna into a management pen in the corner of Kadiki’s enclosure with a few of Kadiki’s many toys to help him pass the time. One week later I decided to introduce them and opened the gate with shaking hands. Kadiki was so much bigger and stronger than the inbred, frail Nduna that she could have killed him with ease. She raced into the management pen, snarling and smacking her tail on the ground, and as Nduna cowered in the corner she stood before him and uttered a great, guttural roar of rage, her legs akimbo like some sort of furry super-hero and her chin tucked into her chest in the classic aggressor position. She then stalked with great purpose over to the pile of toys, picked them up one by one and carried them out into her enclosure where she piled them up neatly. Finally she returned to the management pen, glanced coldy at the quivering lion in the corner and then urinated copiously into his water dish before strolling out again and going to lie on the pile of toys. The message was clear - “That’s what I think of you. And, by the way, dont touch my stuff.”

Eventually Nduna plucked up the courage to emerge from the pen into the main enclosure, and embarked on a mission to win over his new housemate. Everything Kadiki did, Nduna did too. Stretching, yawning, scratching, a little stroll to the anthill, a snooze in the afternoon sun - he shadowed her every move. Some areas were, however, out of bounds. Any attempts by Nduna to join Kadiki on her climbing frame ended badly for him, he wasn’t allowed to touch any of the toys and God help him if he drank out of her water dish because she would simply walk up behind him, grab his tail between her teeth and drag him away, and off he would go, trudging sadly up to the management pen to drink the water from the dish she persisted in using as a toilet despite the water being changed by us several times a day. At night I was frequently jerked awake by the sounds of Kadiki’s furious rages when Nduna got too close and I would run down to the enclosure, illuminating her glowering face in the torchlight, and the spectre of Nduna a silent, constant, slinking shadow behind her.

Weeks passed. Nduna was given nourishing meals every day and his own toys, and he simply could not contain his happiness. Running for the sheer pleasure of it, chasing a tyre across the enclosure, lying somnolent and sated in the golden remains of yet another happy day with his treasured blanket between his paws and scraps of his dinner scattered about him. When Nduna first arrived he actually ate chunks out of a car tyre because he thought it was food and he was so hungry. He would rip ravenously at his meat, bolting it down in great chunks and then swallow the bones and then eat the grass that the meat had lain on so as not to miss even one tiny scrap of meat or drop of blood, just in case this miraculous bounty ran out. He found scraps of ancient hide and bone left by Kadiki and ate those too. Two hours before dinner-time he would be pacing the fence, panting with anxiety and tension, his huge yellow eyes searching for the first signs that dinner was on the way, terrified that he would miss out or be forgotten.

The incessant, commercial breeding of lions has reduced the King of the Beasts to this. Nduna will spend his life in our care now, but how many other lions are there out there who will not be so lucky, who are doomed to lives in cramped enclosures, giving birth to yet more cubs that will be taken from their mothers and bottle-fed for the entertainment of tourists, that then grow up and become “difficult” and return to those same enclosures, with too little food and no love, to perpetuate the endless cycle of sadness. To this day, Nduna has not roared. Perhaps, as his fears ease and his spirit strengthens, we will one day hear Nduna proclaiming himself, roaring into the rising sun as the Sanctuary lions greet a new day.

Four months later Nduna is showing signs of becoming a typical Sanctuary resident - complaining loudly if he gets beef two days in a row and pulling faces and rolling his eyes on Thursdays (liver day). Recently Kadiki came into season and Nduna decided that now was the time to assert himself as the alpha male, despite having had a vasectomy immediately after his arrival at the Sanctuary. Despite his very best testosterone-fuelled attempts to be a cool cat and flex his feline muscles, he could not quite get over his very real fear of Kadiki’s razor-sharp temper and claws so his great seduction did not really go according to plan. Firstly, he approached his target in ever-decreasing circles while Kadiki lay and watched him with inscrutable, hooded eyes, only the miniscule flick of her tail giving away her rising irritation (if she had fingernails, she would have been tapping them, fast). Then he leaned over and tentatively tapped her on one golden shoulder with a trembling paw as if to say, “Um, sorry to bother….I was just wondering if, well, you know, I thought maybe we could…..sometime, perhaps…only if you’d like to, of course, and I understand totally if you dont….” and with that Kadiki did the lion version of “Oh, for God’s sake!”, leaping up and smacking him in the face with a full set of recently sharpened claws before stalking off to pee in his water dish again.

The month of October approaches and the air is heavy with heat and dust and the smoky grey residue of bush fires blunting the sharp golden edges of the sun. Burning fire breaks is a task we perform every year, to protect the Sanctuary from the vicious fires that rage through the parched dry landscape before the rains. It is a task I hate; the animals are instinctively fearful of fire and are unsettled for days after we have burnt and I am always worried that we will lose control of the small, carefully monitored fires we set to burn back the bush and create a safe perimeter around the Sanctuary. My concerns are not shared by the staff, for whom burning the land is a cultural and pastoral habit and they wander nonchalantly through the incandescent sparks and drifting filigree of ash in their bare feet, chatting and laughing as they beat down the flames with leafy tree branches. This year, however, Silas was a little TOO casual. As we set fire to the head-high Adrenaline Grass that grows behind my house, a quick finger of flame snatched at his dangling shirt tail and set it alight. As he leapt in the air with a screech of fright, Chatu ran up behind him brandishing an immense Msasa branch and felled him with one mighty blow across the butt, and then proceeded to beat out the flames with a vigour that went way beyond heroism and suggested the settling of old scores. Silas lives apart from the other staff in a massive, mouldering mud hut behind the banana plantation in the compound where he spends each evening happily pickling himself with an evil homebrew that consists of everything from tobacco fertiliser to chicken manure, and then facing the ugly consequences of starting work at first light each morning. With the looks and demeanour of a tortoise, it is seldom Silas is galvanised into speedy action but on this occasion he leapt to his feet with astonishing agility and slapped Chatu around the head. A wrestling match ensued as the fire breathed out a scorching dragon’s breath of luminescent red heat and unfurled a great flickering tongue of flame around them. Screaming invective and spraying the protaganists furiously with the hosepipe I put out the fight and the fire and went stamping down to the restaurant for a glass of water.

There, in the playground, I found yet another drama. The thatchers hired to do exhorbitantly expensive repairs to our roof were squatting sullenly in the sand pit, throwing glowering glances at Woody the Eagle Owl who was perched jauntily on the swing, feathers ever so slightly askew. There had been a fly-by assault, apparently. One of the thatchers insisted he had a head injury although there was no wound to be seen. The thatchers were convinced that the owl had deadly intentions and that they could not work under such dangerous conditions. It was not normal for owls to fly around in the daytime, there were murmurs about witchcraft and spirits and then further murmurs about a price increase if the work was to be finished under these circumstances. In local culture superstitions about owls abound - they are believed to be harbingers of misfortune, and we have rescued many injured owls that have been stoned by people. Explaining that Woody the Owl was no more a Messenger of Death than I was (although sometimes on a Monday morning its a close call…) and that we have all suffered her aerial assaults from time to time did not mollify the workforce. Cans of Coca Cola and bags of Simba Cheese and Onion Crisps did the trick instead.

Fear and superstition ruled the day once again when we received reports of a leopard apparently rampaging through an upmarket suburb of Harare. Together with the Zimbabwe Conservation Task Force and the Aware Trust, we set out to investigate the claims that a leopard and its cub were killing dogs and other animals in the area. Leaving baited traps for the leopard, the plan was to capture it, locate the cub and release both in a wilderness area. In the meantime, the story grew…and grew. I kept receiving infuriating phone calls from people asking me if it was true that Khan, our leopard, had escaped and was feasting on dogs in the Northern suburbs. Eyeing the supremely sleek and languid Khan lolling lazily in his tree house at the Sanctuary, waiting for his chicken dinner to be delivered, I just couldn’t see it somehow. Someone reported the leopard drinking from their swimming pool in broad daylight. Someone else said they awoke in the dead of night and the leopard was gazing intently through the bedroom window at them. Then came the report of FOUR leopards running in a pack down the main road past the Spar supermarket. Perhaps they just popped out to get milk. The clincher came early one morning when I answered my phone to a frantic muffled hissing down the line. Not that that is unusual on the Zimbabwean cell phone network, but this distorted mumble had a definite air of panic. It transpired that a lady was out walking on a busy suburban road and had come across two leopards. One was sitting in a tree, apparently, and the other one was on the ground.
“What should I do?” she whispered in a tremulous voice.
“Ok,Sharon,” I murmured soothingly, “Just back away verrrry slowly. No sudden movements. Just walk backwards slowly and then phone me back.”
The phone then went dead. After about fifteen minutes the suspense was killing me and I managed to get back through to her cell phone.
“Sharon? Are you ok? You didn’t get back to me.”
“Well that’s because I’m still walking backwards. You didn’t tell me how far to go.”

A subsequent investigation revealed that it was possibly two serval cats causing all the alarm and despondency, but it still doesn’t explain the large and aggressive guard dog we saw that had been killed and half-eaten by a mystery assassin

Our OVERSEAS VOLUNTEER PROGRAMME is fully functional again, offering a unique and memorable experience to volunteers of all ages from all over the world. We only take two volunteers at a time which allows for a very personal, genuine work experience as part of the Sanctuary team. Volunteers accompany us on rescues, feed and care for our ever-increasing family of animals and birds, help to source, transport and process the huge amounts of food we need every day, assist with veterinary procedures, raise orphaned animals and learn how to adapt and achieve their full potential in a very challenging environment.Evan Owen and Ellen Dyer and Risha Patel from the UK spent time with us in August and we have just said a very sad goodbye to Kevin Kruger and Mathew Gibson from South Africa. Kevin and Mat have, however, been immortalised here by the South African rugby slogans they carved into the wet cement of the Hyena Plunge Pool they designed and constructed during their time with us. Volunteers from Germany, America and England will be with us over the next two months. Details of the Volunteer Programme can be found on our website www.ballyvaughan.co.zw.

Chaotic power cuts continue to make life difficult as we struggle to keep freezers cold and water pumps functioning. Power surges knock out compressors on at least 2 of our 16 deep freezers and coolers each month and surge-protection devices dont work because most of the time our power is at such a low voltage that the appliances keep switching themselves off. A shortage of diesel fuel a couple of months ago brought back the misery of queueing endlessly or buying dubious black market fuel at exhorbitant prices. Our sincere thanks to Rob Follet-Smith of Alro Shipping for once again coming to our rescue during this particular crisis. A defunct geyser, leaking roofs, broken water pipes, licences and insurance, vehicle repairs and a thousand other things gobble up funds faster than they come in. The continual arrival of injured, orphaned and displaced animals and birds puts further strain on our limited resources. Without our friends, donors and sponsors the Sanctuary would not exist. Our stockfeed programme is sponsored by Angus Melrose, George Kille, Mike Tones, Anne Lowe, Golfing and Giving, Di Fyn, Sue Roberts, Rose and Rogan McClean and Johnny Rodrigues of the Zimbabwe Conservation Task Force.

Our predators are fed every day at 4pm on a balanced and varied diet. This is made possible by Stof Hawgood of Tavistock Estates, Darryl Mills of Koala Park, Arlington Farm, Rob and Les Duncan and Mark Harper of Montana Meats, Hannes Cruger of Crugs Chooks, Steve Curle, Robyn Joughin and all the other people who make the considerable effort to contact us with offers of carcasses.

Gus and Amanda le Breton recently offered a wonderful home to two of our rescue donkeys. As always, the trip to their game park was fraught with technical difficulties (thinking back to the rampaging wart hogs and the arrest of Margaret the Sheep….) and after spending most of the day perched on the side of an almost perpendicular slope with the horsebox in front of us and the horsebox axle behind us we were finally rescued by Dr Ramlaul and limped back to Harare with the whole contraption tied together with bits of fencing wire.

Sincere thanks from everyone at the Sanctuary to Rob Greebe - longtime sponsor of the irascible Sweetie the Serval, Scott Rae of Xpress Print Shop who donates laminating services, Steve Watt who updates our website, Avani Mooljee, Emma Robinson and Phil Barclay who sponsor Cruela the Caracal, Nikki Kellow, sponsor of our serval cats, Beverley Bridger who works tirelessly to raise funds for us, Bernice Guthrie who is voluntarily taking on the terrible task of teaching me time management, Chooks and David Langerman and Vicky Campion who sponsor Smeegal the Serval, Sharon Nichols - a stalwart volunteer who somehow copes with the chaos I leave in my wake, Andrew and Leanne Revolta, Joe Lees, Hansi (”the carrot man”), Moira Potgeiter - my true friend, Kim Devlin, Sarah Savory and all at 9 Drew Road for their generous support of Babu the baboon, Meryl Harrison, Clive Field, Trevor Fernihough, Johnny and Cheryl Rodrigues of the Z.C.T.F, Lorraine and Gavin Randall, the Kristensens and Catherine Carter who so kindly remember our rescued dogs and provide delicious treats, Dr Ev Cock, the Aware Trust, April Greek, Wayne and Belinda Whitaker, Troy and Liz Prinsloo of Zimbiz, Webdev, Yo Africa, Max and Chris Ilsink, Heather Israel, Christina Rolfe, Rhonnie from C.F.U and Mike Garden for your continued support and assistance. The Middleton family made it possible for us to buy a desperately needed new deep freezer, Rose and Rogan McClean provide generous monthly support for our hyena, Blossom. Angus and Rowena Melrose and Brian Stewart are very special friends of the Sanctuary - they have held several functions at the Sanctuary to raise funds for us, most recently the Harare Athletics Club cross country run. Sophie and Alexandra Bean remain devoted and generous sponsors of Khan the Leopard and Karen and Stacey Gent continue to give Kadiki the Lioness the fabulous lifestyle she demands.

At this time of year our vehicles are constantly hauling massive loads of food for the animals. With very little grazing, we have to supplement feed all our herbivores constantly and we would be lost without the efficient and reliable assistance of Rodney Beckly of Smooth Runnigs, who so kindly services and maintains our trucks.

The rehabilitation of Nduna the Lion would not be possible without the hugely generous support of Richard and Tanya Betts, Paul Healey, Clive McClean, The Mallow Family, Karen Bean and the Book Borrowers Club who donated their substantial book club subscriptions and boxes of books in pristine condition for re-sale in our shop, the Cancer Association who kindly allowed us to run their book sale for them and donated $50 to Nduna’s care and many visitors who left donations for him.

Thank you from us all to Sylvia Carter for the care she gives to us - both the people and the animals benefit so much from her kindness and generosity, Flea Freel - friend to us all and especially to Jacob the Donkey, Di Twiggs who is the longest-serving volunteer at the Sanctuary and has seen me and the animals through good times and bad, Mike Trask for cement, donuts and building advice, Les Ives - the Great Motivator, and as always to Vin Ramlaul, without whom it would all be so much less.

The support of Zimbabweans locally and overseas is all that keeps the Sanctuary going. We take in starving, neglected, unwanted and terrified animals all the time and you are the reason we never have to turn any of them away, the reason they are loved and cared for to the very best of our ability. From Ngozi the 300 kilogram lion to Trigger the Eagle Owl, Cruela the Evil Caracl to Thumbelina the endangered Blue Duiker, the chickens, the donkeys and our fearless little family of Banded Mongooses - thank you from the heart for your friendship and for making us feel that we are not doing this alone.

The Twenty Four Hour Vet Surgery, cnr Upper East and Second St is our ONLY collection point where items for the animals, payments etc can be left for the Sanctuary.

We are only 40 minutes from the city centre on the 21km peg on the Shamva Road

With love and thanks from us all
Sarah and The Bally Vaughan Sanctuary Family

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