Surprises, mischief and loss

After Saturday's poaching fiasco, I felt very apprehensive about venturing back into the bush.
I kept picturing myself stumbling upon wounded dogs or disembowelled wildlife. Or, worst of all, finding my mongooses mauled or missing.

My anxiety levels were on the rise (I hadn't been able to find Koppiekats or Ecthelion) when a large dog-like animal lumbered out of a bush at my feet. My heart sank. It's not unusual for poachers to leave a dog behind, and I've tried before (unsuccessfully) to help these pathetic, starving creatures. But my dread turned instantly to delight as I realised that it wasn't a dog at all; it was a civet.

I adore African civets. They're decked out in amazingly luxuriant fur, blotched garishly in black and white, and they look like huge soft toys. They usually only prowl about at night, so it's a rare privilege to glimpse one (I've written about them before here). This one quickly disappeared into the vegetation, but I felt I'd received a gift and continued my search for Ecthelion with a lighter heart.

African civets (Civettictis civetta) aren't fussy about what they munch, happily scoffing fruit and veggies, insects, snails and carrion. They also hunt vertebrates up to the size of new-born antelope (e.g. mongooses) and are one of the few creatures to dine on large millipedes (which exude toxins). Image borrowed from here.

Click here to see a photo on one pinching leftovers; I love his portly profile.

It wasn't long before I found Ecthelion or rather they found me. Firstly I glimpsed a small black shape hurrying toward me and then excited mongooses appeared everywhere, some calling (they use the same high-pitched squeak they give when looking for lost group members) and others clambering up on boulders to weave eagerly back and forth (the mongoose equivalent of waving).

Why was I getting all this attention? I don't radio-collar my study animals (see here for an explanation), so if I'm to find the three-inch-high critters (in their 40 ha home range), it's important that they want to be found. To ensure a warm welcome, I reward them each time I join the group with some boiled egg, a few mealworms or some water. So during the winter dry season, when bugs are scarce, they're often very pleased to see me.

Ecthelion all came bouncing around eagerly, and I crouched down to try to count them (counting swarms of mongooses features regularly in my nightmares). Was anyone missing? I was so busy peering at individuals trying to identify who was present, I didn't notice one of the youngsters, Thor, creeping toward my backpack. Flattened against the ground, he inched forward, closer and closer, and then leapt up to seize the plastic bag poking out of the side pocket of my pack. He raced off at full gallop, the plastic bag - containing a boiled egg - flapping wildly behind him.

Thor (EM038) plotting egg theft.

The pilfering of 'egg bags' is an occupational hazard when working with mongooses. The meerkats were master criminals; some even learnt how to open zippers. One meerkat pup perfected the technique of clambering up his victim's back, onto their head, and then launching himself into the air. He'd plummet down onto the hand holding the egg bag, fixing his teeth in the plastic as he passed and letting gravity carry him - and the bag - away (it worked every time). While the dwarf mongooses are comparatively unsophisticated larcenists, they do tend to drag their spoils off down a burrow, so I immediately rushed after Thor. Unfortunately, I left behind the mealworm container, open and unguarded beside my pack. Returning with the slightly chewed egg bag, I found Jen and Binky (named after Death's horse in the Terry Pratchett novels) madly excavating bran from the container and gorging themselves on worms.

Once I'd regained a semblance of control, I was able to figure out that no one was missing from Ecthelion. The same transpired to be true of Koppiekats and Halcyon. Unfortunately, Bugbears was not so lucky. Melursus, a youngster born last Christmas, is AWOL and he almost certainly fell victim to the poachers' dogs. Thankfully no one else in the group appears to be injured, so it could have been much worse.

Melursus (BF034) at two months of age.

The killers return

I did NOT enjoy my time with the mongooses yesterday.

I arrived at the study site to find a stake-out.
Rangers and other reserve staff lined the road. Someone had heard dogs barking: the poachers were back.

Poaching using hunting dogs is popular here, and the pack of dogs kills any animal it comes across, including mongooses. (I wrote about the consequences of their last visit here.)

"They're in there", said a ranger I met on the road, waving his hand directly at Koppiekats' territory.
Arrgh! This reserve is 3,000 ha in size; 6,000 ha if you count the adjoining reserve (no fences in between). My habituated mongooses use a total of 200 ha. What are the odds of the poachers choosing my study site? Twice!

The reserve staff (which included giggling domestic workers, gardeners and anyone one else they could rope in) seemed to have Ecthelion's and Koppiekats' ranges surrounded, so I decided Halcyon was the choice of the day. Located about ¾ km beyond the stake-out, I figured it should be OK if I kept my eyes and ears open.

 Pleaides (KF005) watching for danger at Koppiekats.

About 20 minutes later, I was sitting watching the mongooses stretch and yawn in the early sun when I heard something large approaching through the bush. It didn't sound like any animal I was familiar with, and I spent a couple of minutes straining to identify the sounds: wildebeest... eland... zebra? As the noises drew closer I came to the unpleasant conclusion that if it was nothing I recognised, it had to be a person (I told you I was a hermit). Heart thumping, I was just edging toward the mongooses' termite mound (to get discretely out of sight) and fumbling with my cell phone (to notify the rangers), when a man clambered up the embankment about 20m away from me. It wasn't an employee of the reserve, and no one I recognised. Fingering the pepper spray in my pocket, I continued to reverse toward the mound. I figured that the moment he saw me, he'd head the other way fast, so it was with a shock of horror that I watched him catch sight of me and swing round to come over. I only had time for a couple of gulped breaths before I saw he was carrying a walkie-talkie (a cunning prop?... nah, poachers aren't that affluent). Yet I was still unable to calm my racing heart. It transpired that he was an employee on the neighbouring reserve who'd seen my arrival from the far hillside, where he and his fellows were tracking footprints. He'd come over to let me know that they were there, so I wouldn't panic if I saw them (too late!).

After his departure, I attempted to recover my composure. Watching small animals snoozing in the sun, combined with deep breathing, is most therapeutic so I was almost back to normal when the shooting started. A loud volley of shots rang out, followed by another; and another. It was coming from the direction of the stake-out and, although it was distant enough not to endanger me, I was unnerved, having no idea of what was going on. I figured that the rangers were probably doing the shooting (because poachers with guns shouldn't need dogs) or at least I hoped that was the case. Meanwhile the mongooses went into a complete panic. They're not afraid of gun fire, but every grey lourie within a 5 km radius cried out in alarm, and the mongooses take lourie alarms VERY seriously.

 Grey louries (Corythaixoides concolor) are now officially named grey go-away-birds after their loud calls. My mongooses take the warning to heart, fleeing to cover for 85% of lourie alarm calls, compared with 50% of tree squirrel alarms and 42% of hornbill alarms.

Photo by Arno & Louise Meintjes.

When the second round of shooting broke out, closer this time, I began to think that maybe I should just go home. I was sitting debating the pros and cons (scientific commitment versus personal safety) when the squirrels down by the creek erupted in a frenzy of alarms. A large black dog came loping past me. He was on a mission and took no notice of me or the wildly fleeing mongooses, but I began to suspect that this was not the place to be. The mongooses came to the same conclusion, deserting their sleeping mound to race off in the opposite direction to the dog. This made me even more anxious; they'd have been much safer just retreating back to bed. Still, there was nothing I could do to protect them, so I gave up and went home.

The rangers didn't manage to catch the poachers but they shot six dogs (more innocent victims). However, since there were at least twelve dogs in the pack (how much poaching do you need to do just to maintain twelve large dogs?), these animals are still rampaging in my mongooses' home ranges. I'm hoping the dogs will be too spooked by the shooting to indulge in much hunting, but who knows.
Once I got home, I found I really was quite stressed, so decided to take today off (it is Sunday after all). Tomorrow is soon enough to assess the casualties.

The reserve in which I work, on a more peaceful morning.

One less mongoose

For a young mongoose, life in the wild is fraught with hazards. When you weigh less than 200g, everybody thinks they can make a meal of you. And sometimes they do.
For the mongoose researcher - who inevitably grows fond of her subjects - the loss of a youngster is distressing. Particularly, if the said researcher fears she's indirectly responsible.

It happened about three weeks ago, soon after dawn on a Saturday morning. I was tramping through the bush in search of Ecthelion when I heard the piercing whistle of a mongoose alarm call. It didn't take long to find the termite mound in which the frightened mongoose was hiding. It was located right on the edge of Ecthelion's territory, so I wasn't sure whether I'd found them or the neighbouring group, Yarra. Either way, they shouldn't have been alarming at me. While I was trying to puzzle this out, a flurry of barking broke out. It sounded as if a dog had bailed up a mongoose about 80 metres away, at one of Ecthelion's favourite sleeping mounds.

Now dogs at my study site are bad news; both for me and the mongooses. At this remote locality, the only dogs one meets are those accompanying poachers. The local poachers usually set snares (lethal wire nooses strung across game trails) to trap bush meat, but sometimes they bring hunting dogs to chase and pull down antelope. Although I was keen to intervene in whatever might be happening to my mongooses, I'd no desire to march into the middle of a group of poachers, pepper spray or no. Eventually, I withdrew to the car, rang the ranger and then headed off to Halcyon instead.

Cadellin, a young male in Ecthelion; photographed in early May. He was named after the wizard in Alan Garner's children's fantasy 'The Weirdstone of Brisingamen'.

However, I couldn't stop feeling anxious about Ecthelion. Wild animals that have learnt to trust humans are very vulnerable. To help reduce this risk, I use special calls whenever I approach, or walk with, the groups. This makes it easy for them to distinguish between researchers and strangers. Although this technique worked well with meerkats (where the local farm workers catch meerkats to sell as pets or 'bush meat', and hunters occasionally shoot them 'for fun'), my dwarf mongooses almost never saw humans on foot, other than researchers. This meant they'd never had to learn to differentiate between friend and foe. I was afraid that Ecthelion had confidently trotted up to the poachers, only to be attacked by their dogs.

I searched for the group again the next day but was unable to find them. This went on for almost a week; the group had gone into hiding which was not a good sign. Often when a mongoose is sick or injured the group will curtail its movements, foraging around the sleeping mound and returning there night after night. This lets the ailing animal 'stay in bed' and gives it a chance to recover. The fact that Ecthelion had not appeared at one of their other termite mounds was ominous.

After a week of searching, I finally found them. A hasty count revealed that someone was missing: Cadellin, a seven-month old male. And then I saw his litter mate Jen. He'd been severely mauled. He had two gaping wounds piercing his side and large strips of skin had been torn away to expose the raw flesh of his side and stomach. He was also skeletally thin, having been too badly injured to forage. But at least his wounds were healing and he was now able to keep up with the group.
Over the last two weeks, Jen has regained the weight he lost, and although his wounds (legacy of the dog's canine teeth?) are still open, he's behaving normally. I even saw him rolling about in play with his sister yesterday. I'm hoping the poachers don't come back!

Jen two-weeks after the attack. He was named after the hero in 'The Remarkable Journey of Prince Jen' by Lloyd Alexander.