Close encounter of the wild kind
After a hectic Rugby World Cup Final and a pool tournament (which I lost by one point in sympathy with the Tricoleurs), I retired to bed soon after 8pm. Just before dropping off, I was rudely shaken from my impending slumber by the frantic, ear-splitting barking of my daughter Jade’s Daschund puppy. My wife rushed out onto the stoep, expecting to find one of the chickens in death throws at the hands (I mean, paws) of some or other nocturnal predator – genets and mongooses being the most common culprits. However this time we could hear a deafening fight for survival going on across the stream on our neighbour’s property – it sounded something between a Jack Russell and a young baboon screaming in agony.
Throwing caution to the wind (well, actually it was a perfectly still evening), I donned my wellington boots, grabbed my spotlight torch and bravely headed off to investigate what foul murder was taking place. I jogged up the path through our little grove and slipped through the gate onto our neighbour’s access road, following it down a short hill to where it crosses the stream. There I stopped and pulled the trigger on my torch, and a one million candle power beam illuminated the violent scene some 25 metres up the track.
To my great surprise, I witnessed a tug-o-war between two Honey Badgers, the ‘rope’ being a third Badger. I watched in fascination as these black-and-silver, solid but squat little beasts fought in a ferocious tumble of teeth and claws. They stand about 30cm high and are up to a metre in length from nose to tail tip. After an eternity of seconds, they suddenly stopped fighting and screeching, and looked towards me. At least one immediately started running towards me, fearless (it seemed fearless too).
Instantly deciding that ‘discretion was the better part of valour’ (apologies to Chick Henderson, the venerable SA rugby commentator), I turned tail and sprinted back up the hill. Now in case you think I was unduly cautious, don’t let the sweet-sounding name “honey badger” mistake you. The Afrikaans name for this rugged creature is the “Ratel”, a name adopted for the South African-made armoured troop vehicle celebrated for its ability to withstand landmine explosions. And if you’ve watched the classic Jamie Uys film “The Gods Must Be Crazy II” (which coincidently – or not – I watched for the first time just a week ago), you’ll know that once a Ratel bites your boot, it never lets go.
When I reached the top of the rise after about 40 metres I stopped momentarily and shone my torch back down the track – only to see two bright blue lights growing larger every split second. No, it wasn’t the police; it was the Ratel’s eyes reflecting the torch light. So on I sprinted for another 40 yards or so till I reached the wrought-iron entrance gate, where I paused again to see if my stalker had given up the chase. But no, it was still in hot pursuit! Over-wrought was not an option, so I squeezed between the bars of the gate and hurtled down the road, jumped over a barb-wire fence and raced around to our cottage, shouting to Jacqui to get our two diminutive dogs inside.
Whew, that was close! Panting like a dog, I retrieved my Field Guide to Mammals from the bookshelf and flipped to the Honey Badger entry. There the section on behaviour confirmed the prudence of my quick-witted reactions: “Very territorial and aggressive. Have been known to attack elephant and buffalo, and humans when threatened.”
In any event, I felt quite chuffed as I’d managed to break up the fight – clearly at least one Ratel had engaged the classic psychological defence mechanism of ‘transference’, and decided to vent its aggression on me instead of its rivals. The rest of the night, all was peaceful and quiet on the little Riverndale Farm we know so well.
In case you think I’m over-dramatising, check this out:
http://www.badassoftheweek.com/honeybadger.html
Tags: wildlife