Tiny jaws, scaredy paws

by Terry Valentine (United States of America)

A leap into the unknown South Africa

I spent June of my first year of graduate school just outside Hoedspruit, South Africa, earning course credit as an excuse to scratch a lifelong itch. Having said goodbye to my husband, I spent four weeks thousands of miles outside my North American comfort zone, living an experience that for many is as real as it gets - sleeping on a cot in a canvas tent, taking cold showers and not leaving camp without an armed escort or even my tent at night alone. After two weeks of day-hiking amid herds of zebra and wildebeest, the announcement was made that we would be spending the next night out in the bush, without even our tents for shelter. The instructor for my group had chosen a natural hollow between several large rocks that stood above the surrounding landscape – which would force any encroaching animals to show themselves. After a simply-cooked supper we watched the Milky Way come into full display - especially now that we were away from even the light bulbs of our primitive camp - as well as the Southern Cross and other constellations not visible from our hometowns. It was expected that the smell of leftover bones from supper would attract visitors, and each student would stand watch for an hour in turn. Having volunteered for the 11:00-midnight hour I bedded down still in my hiking clothes, between several low shrubs for a little sleep before my watch. After a few minutes I sat up again as I became aware of a low but audible crunching sound all around me. A pinch on my misplaced hand informed me that I’d chosen a spot right next to a termite mound, on top of several holes from which its residents had fanned out. But alarm turned to relief as I realized they had no interest in the synthetic fibers of my cocoon and were solely in pursuit of the cellulose comprising the surrounding foliage and ground litter. I lay back down and let the white noise of this nightly forage lull me to sleep. I was awakened promptly at 11:00 and found that my termite neighbors had retired. The quiet of camp and fading fire, with the moon and stars providing the only light apart from my flashlight made for an unsettling scene; but to my knowledge John hadn’t lost any students yet and if a bunch of undergrads could do their duty, so could I. Still, an up-close-and-personal encounter in the dead of night was more than what most of us had signed up for, even if we were all there to see the wildlife. After 20 minutes of regular rounds, the “torch” light reflected off a pair of eyes belonging to a hyena 30 feet away, who had paused his cautious approach from the direction of our hike. We stood looking at each other for several seconds, perhaps sizing each other up, myself oddly calm considering what I’d always heard and read about the strength of a hyena’s jaws. Our armed instructor had bedded down for the night but had told us he’d be sleeping with one eye open. “John,” I simply said quietly, “There’s a hyena.” “Yes,” he replied from his bedroll, “There are lions in the area too.” Well that’s reassuring! I thought. But either my voice or body language must have spooked Mr. Hyena as he promptly turned and scampered off in the direction from which he’d come. A few minutes later, just beyond one of the large rocks I could hear its distinctive giggle. “Keep the torch shining over there,” John said, apparently still vigilant. “That was a greeting from one hyena to another. Now there’s two.” But despite Mr. Hyena’s reappearance from another direction my watch concluded without incident, if with an increased heart rate. Another attempt in the small hours elicited an excited announcement by the night watch, but we all survived until morning. Upon preparing to leave John inspected the tracks in the sand, left by the animal’s first retreat. “What did you say to that hyena??” he asked me. “He beat it out of here like a bat out of hell!” Apparently even to a hyena there are night-monsters scarier than himself.