de Rosner / Spence / Bell Called By The Wild

The Dogs Trained to Protect Wildlife
1. Auflage 2023
ISBN: 978-1-77619-335-6
Verlag: Jonathan Ball
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 300 Seiten

The thrilling story of a pioneering conservationist working with dogs to protect wildlife from poachers. Conraad de Rosner is one of the first game rangers to focus on working with specially trained dogs to protect wildlife from poachers - both 'bushmeat' poachers, who use cruel snares to trap animals, and criminal syndicates killing for rhinoceros horn and capturing critically endangered pangolins, the most trafficked animal in the world. Con's life - constantly at risk from poachers, wildlife and even his own fellow rangers - has been saved on numerous occasions by his devoted canine companions. His first dog, Zingela, a Weimaraner, saved Con from near certain death at the hands of two fellow rangers; on another occasion, Zingela alerted Con to a concealed wounded buffalo, one of Africa's most dangerous animals, about to charge. When Zingela was tragically killed, hit by a car while Con was away, the only meagre consolation was that Con had kept Landa, one of the nine puppies sired by Zingela. Landa followed in his father's footsteps as the leader of the canine anti-poaching team that is still operating today. Con's story is an epic of modern-day African wildlife conservation, filled with courage, adventure and romance.

CONRAAD DE ROSNER was born and schooled in Gqeberha, then Port Elizabeth. He studied nature conservation before starting work, in 1993, at Windy Ridge Game Park in KwaZulu-Natal. In 2009, he was appointed assistant anti-poaching manager at Sabi-Sands game reserve. In 2011, he formed his company, K9 Conservation, at Thanda Game Reserve. In 2015, he moved to his base training farm in Hoedspruit, where for the past six years and more, he has developed and expanded his training of rangers and dogs.

Autoren/Hrsg.

de Rosner, Conraad

Spence, Graham

Bell, Elaine

Leseproben

1

THE ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT

A fundamental lesson of tracking in thick bush is that dongas, dry riverbeds, are potential death traps.

To emerge headlong from a steep ravine onto higher ground is the ultimate ‘sitting duck’ situation. Any predator such as a hunting lioness, irate buffalo – or more likely these days, an AK-47-toting poacher – will have an immediate jump on you.

This was drummed into me from a young age by my grandfather, Coenraad Havemann, who I called Oupa, as well as my uncle and mentor, Louis John Havemann. They both continually stressed that I must always first scan the bush from below the river bank to check every angle before exposing myself. They were both wise outdoorsman and I listened to whatever they said.

That’s why I am alive today.

I was patrolling a river in South Africa’s Mpumalanga Province on the northern side of Mthethomusha Game Reserve that borders the Kruger National Park with my dog Zingela when Oupa’s advice was put to the ultimate test. Zingela was a Weimaraner; in my opinion the most loyal, intelligent and beautiful gun dog in the world. I used him extensively in the bush to track poachers or injured animals. He was my first line of defence, and I could tell just by a brief growl or whine exactly what species of animal was nearby. Humans are infinitely more deadly and his body language was enough to alert me if there were any around.

Zingela was also my best friend.

This was a routine patrol. I had no reason to be on full alert, although that state is second nature after decades in the bush. I parked the Land Cruiser above the river bank and Zingela and I clambered down the steep slope to the rock pools below. The water was crystal clear and bubbled with life. Zingela jumped in to cool off and with ears flopped forward and nose to the water, he started looking for fish. This was one of his favourite pastimes and I let him swim in the stream, as there were no crocodiles that high up in the mountain valley. As Zingela fished, I started making my way downstream, marvelling at the swarms of iridescent dragonflies hovering and darting this way and that as I carefully scrutinised the game trails leading down to the pools for any signs of poachers’ snares. There were none. It was just another day in paradise.

Or so I thought.

Suddenly Zingela leapt out of the pool and ran up the bank, barking with an alarmed aggression I had not heard before. He had obviously scented something, as the hair on his neck and back was raised. I knew that whatever – or whoever – was above us was dangerous. My survival instinct kicked in, adrenalin flooding my system. I needed to think fast, and act immediately. There was no time to make a mistake.

Remembering Oupa’s words, I did not follow Zingela up the slope but sprinted behind a large granite boulder, about forty yards long and twenty high. Drawing my firearm, a .45 ACP pistol, I silently crept around the side of the massive rock. Zingela instinctively sensed what I was doing and did not follow. Instead, he held his position facing up the bank, his agitated rapid-fire barking acting as a decoy.

I peered cautiously around the boulder and gasped silently at what I saw. Two men armed with R1s, automatic rifles previously used by the South African military, were pointing their weapons down the bank.

I recognised them instantly. To my utter astonishment, they were game rangers who worked for the provincial parks board. Not only that, but both had also been named in a damning report I had earlier submitted to the authorities concerning the poaching epidemic raging across the Mthethomusha reserve. They were key suspects with alleged links to gangs targeting highly endangered animals, while brazenly using their parks-issued rifles to gun down buffalo for the greedy bushmeat industry. The same rifles pointed at where they thought I would emerge.

At first it struck me as strange that they had not fired at Zingela, who was still barking frantically. Then I understood.

‘My God!’ I whispered. ‘They’re after me.’

There was no question about it. They were waiting for me to emerge from behind my dog. If I had charged headlong up the slope – which most people without the benefit of Oupa’s sage advice would’ve done – I would have been shot stone dead.

Silently I approached from behind the boulder, placing one foot carefully in front of the other. A snapping twig or crunch of sand would give me away faster than a striking mamba. When I was about twenty yards from the men, I ducked behind a large tree for cover.

‘Wenzani?’ I shouted in Zulu. What are you doing?

They spun around. The first thing they noticed was my hands locked around the large calibre .45 swivelling from one man’s torso to the next – the most effective area to shoot in the event of an attack. Like most people who have spent their lives deep in the bush, I am a skilled shot. I could take them both out before they could swing their rifles my way. And they knew it.

‘Drop your weapons. Now!’

They did so with alacrity.

‘Move back!’

By now both men had turned fifty shades of pale and hastily backed away from their dropped R1s.

‘Why are your rifles cocked and aimed at my dog?’ I shouted. ‘Was it because you knew I would come up the bank after him? And then you would dubula (shoot) me?’

They denied this vehemently, but I could clearly see by their body language they had been caught out. Not knowing how to react, they stuttered and stammered that they thought Zingela was a hunting dog with a poacher coming up behind him.

‘Oh really? You thought it was a poacher’s dog? But you see me with this dog every day.’

I then pointed to the rusty banged-up Land Cruiser behind us. ‘There is my mova. You see me driving it every day. You knew it was me down by the river. How stupid do you think I am?’

I walked towards the dropped weapons, quickly stripped the rifles and threw the action pieces as far as I could into the bush.

Still pointing my pistol, I slowly walked up to the rangers, who were beside themselves with fright. Zingela ran up the bank, his distinctive stiff-legged gait indicating he was aware of extreme danger. He crouched at my side, baring his fangs, growling viciously. One word from me and he would have attacked.

‘You bastards meant to kill me,’ I said, my voice shaking with shock and anger. ‘You were going to shoot me.’

They shook their heads vigorously. They repeated that they thought they were up against a poaching gang with dogs. That was rich; every ranger in the reserve knew Zingela belonged to me. A muscular Weimaraner with distinctive blue-grey fur, he looked nothing like the slim lurcher-type mutt that poachers use.

This was far from just being an honest mistake. These two guys planned to pump me full of lead and later claim that poachers were responsible, or else leave my body rotting somewhere deep in the bush for hyenas and vultures. Any doubts were dispelled by the fact that they were pointing their weapons at the exact spot where I would have emerged from the river bank. Not to mention that I had recently exposed their alleged poaching activities just a few weeks before.

It was a blatant assassination attempt. I continued swinging the pistol from one man to the other. ‘The next time you try me, I will act in self-defence and kill you both.’

I then backed towards the vehicle, started the motor and drove off, leaving them to find the bits and pieces of their rifles’ firing mechanisms scattered in the veld.

Two things were now certain. One was that Zingela’s incredible alertness and my mentors’ wise words of advice had saved my life. The other was that the enemy was now truly entrenched within. Some of my fellow conservationists and game rangers wanted me out of their way. Permanently.

I took a few minutes to absorb this. There was no more bitter pill to swallow. I have put everything on the line to protect Africa’s unique heritage – it’s magnificent wildlife, unsurpassed anywhere else on this planet. It’s been my lifelong quest.

But how could I continue to do so against such overwhelming odds, when even some of the people I worked with were out to get me? Who could I now trust?

I silently thanked Zingela, lying on the passenger seat with his head on my lap, for saving me. For him, it was no big deal. It was what he did. I knew with granite certainty that I could rely on him in any situation. His loyalty was set in stone. He would lay down his life for me in the blink of an eye. He was incorruptible. A true force of nature.

The battle for Africa’s last wild places will only be won by those with total, unwavering commitment to the natural order of the planet. That we all knew. But where were they? I mean … a few moments ago I had almost been taken out by two supposed ‘good guys’.

In the darkness of despair, I suddenly realised that right next to me was an answer. Zingela. At that moment I grasped that perhaps the ultimate combatants in this conflict for the soul of the wilderness were dogs; creatures that have no conception whatsoever of human vices such as corruption, insatiable greed or utter betrayal. Their loyalty was absolute, their courage immeasurable. Their allegiance to us was not negotiable.

I stroked Zingela’s head. It was a small spark of hope. For me,...