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Authors: Lauren St. John
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Tendai. Sadie had lent them her binoculars and she asked them to report back if they saw any unusual birds or wildlife.
“Tendai says that anyone can learn the basic principles of tracking,” Ben told Martine as they rode across a plain about an hour away from the lodge. “But the best trackers understand that it isn’t just about reading ‘sign,’ which is things like broken twigs or whatever, but about trying to think like the animal or person you’re following. It’s a mind game. See this . . .” He leaned down and pointed at some torn leaves lying in the long grass.
“These are crushed but they haven’t wilted yet, which means that a large animal passed this way within the last hour or so. That’s called ‘sign,’ and it’s obvious to an experienced tracker. The hard part comes if whatever you’re following crosses an area where it leaves little or no trace, like a river or bare rock. That’s when you have to use psychology. Tendai says that people crossing a stretch of water unconsciously walk in the direction they intend to travel, even if they’re trying not to.”
Martine listened in admiration. Until a couple of years ago when his sailor father moved the family to Storm Crossing, Ben had grown up in one of Cape Town’s roughest inner-city areas. Dumisani Khumalo had taken his son fishing or out on boats whenever he could, but before Martine had invited Ben to Sawubona, he’d never had an opportunity to be close to wild animals or out in the bush. And yet to see him now, anyone would think that he’d been having wilderness adventures all his life.
Martine supposed that in that way, at least, they were the same—kids from the suburbs, delivered by fate to Sawubona, where they’d fallen totally in love with nature. That’s why they connected. That’s why they understood each other. That’s why Ben was her best friend.
The afternoon sun lit the top of the waving grasses so they shone blond against the blue sky. Ben stood in his stirrups, holding on to Mambo’s shaggy white mane for balance. “Hey, Martine, look over there. The way the shadows fall on the bent grass shows us the path the animal has taken.”
Martine shaded her eyes and saw that he was right. A wiggly line of shadow gave away the creature’s route across the plain as surely as if it had been advertised with neon lights. A little farther on they found a heap of fresh dung. Ben identified it as being from a rhino.
“Rhino?” said Martine, pulling up Tempest. “What’s a rhino doing here? Didn’t Sadie tell us that, snakes aside, there’s nothing scarier than antelope on Black Eagle land?”
“She did,” agreed Ben, giving up his attempt to stop Mambo guzzling grass. “A rhino shouldn’t be here. That probably means it’s either broken through a fence or walked through a fence that’s been cut by poachers. We’d better follow it.”
Martine looked at him uncertainly. “Ben, if we carry on past that kopje , we’ll reach the northern boundary fence. Remember what Sadie said about us not going near it in case we’re accidentally shot.” Ever since her argument with Gwyn Thomas about riding Jemmy at night—an argument that had gone unresolved for weeks because it happened hours before Martine left Sawubona for a school trip—she’d been trying very hard to do the right thing.
“Oh.” Ben was crestfallen.
Martine’s resolve weakened. After a moment’s hesitation, she continued, “Mind you, we’d feel really bad if we went back without doing anything and the rhino was shot by mistake. We know we have to be careful if we’re anywhere near the Lazy J, but the rhino doesn’t.”
“I agree,” Ben said, “but how are we going to keep it away from the boundary fence? Rhinos are incredibly lethal. We can’t just herd it away as though we’re rounding up a cow.”
Martine gathered up Tempest’s reins. “Let’s stop when we reach the other side of the kopje , check out the situation with
“Tendai says that anyone can learn the basic principles of tracking,” Ben told Martine as they rode across a plain about an hour away from the lodge. “But the best trackers understand that it isn’t just about reading ‘sign,’ which is things like broken twigs or whatever, but about trying to think like the animal or person you’re following. It’s a mind game. See this . . .” He leaned down and pointed at some torn leaves lying in the long grass.
“These are crushed but they haven’t wilted yet, which means that a large animal passed this way within the last hour or so. That’s called ‘sign,’ and it’s obvious to an experienced tracker. The hard part comes if whatever you’re following crosses an area where it leaves little or no trace, like a river or bare rock. That’s when you have to use psychology. Tendai says that people crossing a stretch of water unconsciously walk in the direction they intend to travel, even if they’re trying not to.”
Martine listened in admiration. Until a couple of years ago when his sailor father moved the family to Storm Crossing, Ben had grown up in one of Cape Town’s roughest inner-city areas. Dumisani Khumalo had taken his son fishing or out on boats whenever he could, but before Martine had invited Ben to Sawubona, he’d never had an opportunity to be close to wild animals or out in the bush. And yet to see him now, anyone would think that he’d been having wilderness adventures all his life.
Martine supposed that in that way, at least, they were the same—kids from the suburbs, delivered by fate to Sawubona, where they’d fallen totally in love with nature. That’s why they connected. That’s why they understood each other. That’s why Ben was her best friend.
The afternoon sun lit the top of the waving grasses so they shone blond against the blue sky. Ben stood in his stirrups, holding on to Mambo’s shaggy white mane for balance. “Hey, Martine, look over there. The way the shadows fall on the bent grass shows us the path the animal has taken.”
Martine shaded her eyes and saw that he was right. A wiggly line of shadow gave away the creature’s route across the plain as surely as if it had been advertised with neon lights. A little farther on they found a heap of fresh dung. Ben identified it as being from a rhino.
“Rhino?” said Martine, pulling up Tempest. “What’s a rhino doing here? Didn’t Sadie tell us that, snakes aside, there’s nothing scarier than antelope on Black Eagle land?”
“She did,” agreed Ben, giving up his attempt to stop Mambo guzzling grass. “A rhino shouldn’t be here. That probably means it’s either broken through a fence or walked through a fence that’s been cut by poachers. We’d better follow it.”
Martine looked at him uncertainly. “Ben, if we carry on past that kopje , we’ll reach the northern boundary fence. Remember what Sadie said about us not going near it in case we’re accidentally shot.” Ever since her argument with Gwyn Thomas about riding Jemmy at night—an argument that had gone unresolved for weeks because it happened hours before Martine left Sawubona for a school trip—she’d been trying very hard to do the right thing.
“Oh.” Ben was crestfallen.
Martine’s resolve weakened. After a moment’s hesitation, she continued, “Mind you, we’d feel really bad if we went back without doing anything and the rhino was shot by mistake. We know we have to be careful if we’re anywhere near the Lazy J, but the rhino doesn’t.”
“I agree,” Ben said, “but how are we going to keep it away from the boundary fence? Rhinos are incredibly lethal. We can’t just herd it away as though we’re rounding up a cow.”
Martine gathered up Tempest’s reins. “Let’s stop when we reach the other side of the kopje , check out the situation with
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