NARRATOR: From ancient times, the great landmass of Africa
has been called the Dark Continent.
The name came from the early mapmakers.
They knew so little of this unexplored region,
they left it a blank on their charts.
For centuries it remained a land of mystery,
for Africa, like an ancient fortress, was surrounded by natural barriers
that kept civilization out.
Across the north, a vast desert, the impassable Sahara.
On the west, a dense jungle,
a wall of tangled underbrush along the Congo.
In the south, an arid bush country.
And on the eastern shore,
fever-ridden swamps became a barricade
to all who would invade this land.
In time, of course, explorers penetrated nature's blockade.
And in the dark heart of Africa, they found a primitive paradise.
It was neither desert nor jungle,
but a broad plain, broken by forests,
deep lakes, and towering peaks.
The dominating landmark
is the highest mountain on the continent.
It stands practically on the equator.
This is Mount Kilimanjaro, rising 19,000 feet into the African sky.
Its crest, thrusting through the clouds, wears a permanent mantle of snow.
Here in its shadow, our story begins, for this is the realm of the African lion.
Enter the king of beasts,
a monarch come to review his subjects.
Largest member of the cat family,
the lion roams and rules a vast territory.
On this immense pastureland,
he finds endless herds of grazing animals.
Here are multitudes beyond counting.
And here in this natural spectacle is nature's infinite pattern and plan.
At the moment, it's a picture of peace and plenty.
Yet over this sun-drenched setting
there hovers constantly the shadow of death.
And the lion is its messenger,
for these grazing species are his food.
And since this is a True-Life Adventure in nature's Africa,
where we meet tragedy, we may expect to see it.
And where we find life born anew, we will pause to view that, too.
The ruler and the ruled.
The eaters of meat and the eaters of grass, all living together.
Nowhere else in the world does nature mix her species
in such profusion and variety.
This is the wildebeest, sometimes called the gnu.
A species of antelope,
he and his kind are favorite prey of the lion.
This is a distant cousin, the hartebeest, and he's hunted by the great cats, too.
The zebra is the native horse of Africa.
His stripes would seem to make him conspicuous,
yet he's rarely taken unaware,
for he's one of the most alert of animals.
The waterbuck also stays on guard,
counting on dagger-sharp horns for protection.
To the sable antelope nature gave a pair of curving cutlasses
and the skill to use them.
But when it comes to really fancy headgear,
the kudu is in a class by himself.
The tiny gazelles are more or less ignored by the king of beasts.
He considers them hardly big enough for a meal.
And here's a species that's barely tidbit-size.
This is the dik-dik.
Smallest of all the antelope, he stands 14 inches at the shoulder,
just about the size of a small dog.
This is the gerenuk, sometimes known as the giraffe antelope.
Long on neck and short on nourishment,
he's another the lion chooses to pass up.
The impala, however, are more to a king's taste.
But like all antelope, they're extremely agile
and almost impossible to take by surprise.
These are impala in action.
They can cover 30 feet at a bound.
The eland, largest of all the antelope,
also keeps in practice for a quick getaway.
By some strange instinct,
the grazing animals can tell when lions are hunting.
If the big cats are just passing through,
the herds will let them come surprisingly close.
Of course, there's no point in taking too many chances,
and often a committee keeps tabs on the prowler.
The lion is one among many on these plains,
and all have a part to play in nature's primitive pageant.
Occasionally, the great cats find themselves
in the company of some little dogs, the wild dogs of Africa.
Individually, these small predators
would be outmatched by almost any adversary.
But when they combine their numbers, it's a different story.
They run in a pack, like wolves,
and are a constant threat to the grazing herds.
Among the grass eaters, there's one animal who's rarely molested.
He's the African buffalo.
The full-grown bull often carries horns spreading four feet across.
These broaden at the base to form a thick shield over the skull.
And so the buffalo, head-on at least, is practically invulnerable.
Even the king of beasts treats this formidable fellow with respect.
The warthog, too, is well-prepared for defense.
His tusks are razor-edged and ready for action.
And yet, given the chance, he almost always chooses retreat.
But not with his tail between his legs.
This appendage he carries proudly erect,
a signal to his family that says, "Follow me."
Sharp eye and sharper beak.
This is the African vulture.
Wherever these birds appear, it's a sign of disaster.
As nature's scavengers, the vultures lead a precarious existence
where they're in constant competition with others of their sort.
And the rivalry includes jackals,
who now try to keep some carrion they've found.
But since there's no honor among thieves,
the vultures take possession by sheer weight of numbers.
In nature's scheme of things,
there's room for robbers as well as royalty.
And so the scavengers are as much a part of the African setting
as the lion himself.
Of all the strange creatures in the lion's domain,
none can top the giraffe, the tallest animal in the world.
He's three times the height of a tall man.
In fact, his neck alone is sometimes seven feet in length.
The giraffe has a reputation for silence,
yet on rare occasions, he can make a sound.
It's a weak one, to be sure, a sort of high-pitched grunt.
And for all practical purposes, he remains a mute animal.
Here's an odd pastime.
It's like dueling with buggy whips.
Right now it's a simple sparring practice,
but during the mating season, when they're serious,
the blows can be fatal.
On the sidelines, a group of critics pass on the finer points of technique.
And here's a case of every spectator having a perfect vantage point.
The one time the giraffe has trouble with his long neck
is when he drinks.
This is the moment when he's vulnerable to his enemies.
But when danger threatens, he can show surprising speed.
He looks like he's running on stilts,
but his long stride soon takes him out of harm's way.
To match the giraffe's height, nature put his dinner table in the attic.
And so he's a browser
who finds a special diet in the high foliage of the African trees.
For some strange reason, he favors the thorn acacia.
He avoids its sharp spines, however, by means of an extra-long tongue
which can reach between them.
The giraffe is a gentle creature,
one who never gives his neighbors trouble.
But this can hardly be said of the rhinoceros.
(SNORTING)
This grumpy species goes around with a grudge against everybody.
When he hides like this, he's not playing games.
There are two tons of bad disposition behind those spears,
and if he charges, he's as dangerous as an armored tank.
The name "rhinoceros" means "horned nose."
These barbarous weapons, however, are not true horns,
but masses of hardened fibers.
The African rhino carries two, for double duty.
Because they're so unpredictable,
the rhinos are avoided by most other animals.
But this social neglect doesn't faze them.
They continue on their way, as ill-mannered as ever,
and they work off their bad tempers by chasing each other.
The African lion is nothing more than an overgrown cat,
and like all the tribe, he likes his comforts.
In fact, he's just about the laziest animal alive.
And when lions decide to relax, it's catnapping on a grand scale.
A family of lions is called a pride,
and it includes anywhere from half a dozen to two dozen members,
all the relatives of several generations.
Unlike most cats, the lions are family-minded,
and the pride tends to be more or less permanent.
In rotation, the youngsters grow up, find themselves mates
and raise their own crop of cubs,
the usual litter being four to six.
In the nursery, the youngsters follow the lazy example set by their elders
and work as little as possible for their keep.
They nurse with any lioness that's handy,
and whose mother belongs to whom doesn't seem to matter.
The lion cub is naturally playful,
and his kittenish actions reveal a close kinship with his domestic cousins.
In fact, this playfulness continues even into adulthood.
At this age, however, even in play, there's the natural instinct for the kill,
and the lunge for the throat is automatic.
(GROWLING)
(CRYING)
Being true cats, the lions haven't forgotten how to climb.
But since they almost never leap on their prey from above,
they have no real need for this ability.
And so when a lion climbs a tree, it's only for the view.
Around home, the king of beasts is just another helpless,
good-for-nothing male animal.
The real head of the royal household is the lioness,
and when she wants His Majesty's place in the shade,
she says so in no uncertain terms.
(GROWLING)
And the youngsters know who's boss, too.
They side with Mother every time.
Aside from occasional squabbles, the pride is one big happy family.
And as long as everybody's well-fed,
they spend their days in leisurely contentment.
But if an outsider from another territory moves in, there's a sudden change.
A strange lioness has no place in the inner circle.
And before she quite knows what's happened,
she's surrounded by snarling fury.
(ALL GROWLING)
This is a battle of the females.
For some reason, the mothers in the pride
seem to feel this visiting lioness is a menace to their cubs.
Their logic is a bit obscure, perhaps, but their actions are perfectly clear.
The male lion plays a minor part in the affair.
He seems to participate only because it's expected of him.
But up against an enraged lioness, his heart isn't really in it.
In the end, the intruder manages to beat a retreat,
considerably the worse for wear.
And now that peace has been restored,
the pride resumes its normal lazy routine.
But now, some more outsiders arrive on the scene,
and the elephants may not be so easily driven away.
Here comes the herd bull,
with something more on his mind than a social call.
Elephants are used to having their own way,
and this one, with the herd in his charge,
obviously doesn't want lions in the vicinity.
This time, the lions choose discretion and a dignified withdrawal.
Indeed, if there's one species to whom the king of beasts
might concede his royal prerogatives, it's the African elephant.
(TRUMPETING)
In this primitive pageant, these giants loom largest of all.
In size, the elephants of Africa far surpass their cousins in Asia.
In fact, these modern mammoths
are the largest mammals that walk the Earth.
In Africa, as everywhere else, the daily dilemma of each creature is food.
And the elephant, with the biggest appetite,
has the biggest problem.
He consumes great quantities of grass,
but he finds it only an appetizer and takes his main course from the forest.
Strictly a vegetarian, and by habit a browser,
he eats leaves, branches and all.
These huge animals weigh from six to eight tons apiece,
and they consume a good part of their weight every day.
Dinner is a long, drawn-out affair. It takes time to fill an elephant.
He's a slow eater, but a thorough one.
Methodically, he strips the trees of whole branches at a time.
(BRANCHES CRASHING)
The elephant's trunk serves as an arm, a hand, and a set of fingers all in one.
It's an all-purpose instrument,
amazingly sensitive and handy for all sorts of jobs,
from the biggest to the most delicate.
Often when he's brought his branch to the ground,
the elephant anchors it with his foot
and pulls off bite-size twigs with his trunk.
He understands the principle of leverage,
and if he finds himself with a limb that won't break,
he simply applies extra pressure with his huge tusks.
The tusks of the average bull weigh about 50 pounds each,
but record pairs weighing 150 pounds apiece have been known.
Both the male and the female have them,
and with these handy tools, there's little that can resist them.
They sometimes uproot a full-grown tree.
In the struggle for existence,
an elephant with only one tusk is at a disadvantage,
yet this isn't an unusual plight, especially among the very old bulls.
Put eight tons of pressure on even the best of ivory and it breaks.
This wrinkled patriarch may be 100, 200 years old.
No one can know for sure.
An elephant's age is his own secret,
and in the wild, the years of an individual can only be estimated.
It's believed, however, that the lifespan of an elephant
slightly exceeds that of man,
averaging somewhere between 80 and 100 years.
It's definitely known that the elephant reaches maturity at about 20.
In his teens, he's still cutting youthful capers.
At birth, the baby elephant weighs 200 pounds.
In most families that would be a whopper,
but in this company, he's just a baby.
This little fellow is actually only 12 hours old,
and he's having trouble matching his mother's gigantic strides.
The young of most species are naturally playful,
and a baby elephant is no exception.
He gets a childish pleasure out of chasing the egrets
that often follow the elephants.
These birds are attracted to the insects
the herd stirs up as it moves through the grass.
But now the tables are turned,
and they're the ones being made to scatter.
Young master elephant may be small fry in his own league,
but in this one, he can really throw his weight around.
Although the elephant is called a pachyderm,
which means "thick-skinned,"
his hide isn't nearly as impervious as it seems.
And so he tries to protect himself against the bites of bothersome insects
by taking frequent dust baths.
Elephants are herd animals,
and the herds vary in numbers from only a few to a great many.
This is the elephant version of a freight train.
Count the cars and you'll find 110.
While the herd system provides protection for the young,
it's hardly necessary for the adults.
With their tremendous size and strength,
elephants, full-grown, have no natural enemies.
The one thing elephants must have is water,
and they make long marches to find it.
It takes a good-sized water hole just to meet their drinking requirements.
Now the versatile trunk serves as a flexible water hose.
We humans do well to drink our eight glasses, about two quarts, in a day.
But an elephant siphons up that much in every trunk-full.
A thirsty elephant can take on 14 gallons of liquid refreshment,
and even Mr. Half-Pint drinks it by the bucket.
Here's a pair of tusks that almost got out of control,
and they make drinking something of a problem.
And then there's the fellow who makes a game out of it.
Finally, the hose is hung on a built-in drying rack.
But the ritual at the water hole has barely begun.
Now, with his thirst satisfied,
the elephant turns his attention to a shower.
There's no hot and cold, of course, and it's the muddiest kind of water.
But the elephant enjoys it in spite of all.
To him it's cool and it's wet, and that's all that matters.
And then comes the big rinse, and this is the most fun of all.
(TRUMPETING)
Ordinarily, elephants stick to shallow water.
But if they do get beyond their depth, they are excellent swimmers.
And if one submerges,
he keeps his trunk above the surface as a breathing tube.
For all its handiness, however,
there's one place an elephant's trunk just won't reach.
Well, it's been simply grand, this monumental mud bath,
but all this splashing about has posed a sticky problem.
How to hoist six tons of elephant up the slippery banks?
But finally, with a dry footing, everybody makes the grade,
including the six-tonners.
Here at the water hole, many species come and go.
But to the hippopotamus, this is home.
A true water animal, the hippo is thoroughly adapted to his element.
He favors the marshy backwaters,
where he can wallow to his heart's content.
And he finds a good mud hole irresistible,
for after all, the hippo is related to the pig.
(GRUNTING)
Second only to the elephant in size,
the hippopotamus measures 13 feet around the waistline
and often achieves a bulk of four tons,
yet he's surprisingly agile, both on land and in the water.
He's usually peaceable,
yet he's well able to take care of himself
in a mock battle, or in the real thing.
(BOTH GRUNTING ANGRILY)
The power in these ponderous jaws is tremendous.
This, except for the whale's,
is the biggest mouth in all the animal kingdom.
It was the ancient Greeks who gave the hippopotamus his name.
It means "river horse."
And when his horsy face is seen like this, the name certainly fits.
Occasionally, company comes to call, and of course it's for dinner.
This bird is interested in the tiny parasites that live on hippos.
He's called the lily-trotter, from his habit of walking on lily pads.
But he's also a hippo hopper,
and his exaggerated feet are perfect for the footwork required.
The bird makes himself a sort of personal valet
and goes about tidying up here and there.
He checks eyebrows to see if they need plucking.
A bird beautician, as it were.
There's really not much you can do to help this face, but he keeps trying.
Sometimes he gets carried away by his enthusiasm.
Then his client gives him the brush-off by going below.
The hippo's balloon-like build gives him buoyancy,
and he moves through this underwater dream world practically without effort.
He's able to close both his nose and his ears,
and his great lung capacity permits submersion for minutes at a time.
To renew his air supply, he need only poke his nostrils above the surface.
The hippo associates with some strange companions. Now it's the fish.
He's not especially interested in his finny friends,
but they're more than a little interested in him.
Here's one of nature's unexplained puzzles,
why the fish are attracted to the hippo.
It's a good guess, however, that they feed on his brand of parasites.
These are a carp-like species called the barbel.
They give him a thorough going-over.
And here's the odd spectacle of a fish fishing, of all places,
inside a hippo's mouth.
Attracted by all the commotion, a passerby crashes the party.
This is the crocodile.
And he, too, has a place in this submarine setting.
Crocodile, barbel, hippopotamus. Reptile, fish, mammal.
A strange affinity in a strange world.
In nature, the intellect of her creatures
ranges from the not-so-bright to the near-brilliant.
And for native intelligence, few can match the African baboon.
Witness his choice of a home. A rock castle, perfect for defense.
Here's a fortress he can hold against all comers, even lions.
At times, the baboon appears to be almost foolhardy,
but he knows every cavern in these rocks,
and he's counting on a speedy disappearing act if he needs it.
But lions have more important things to do than chase baboons.
They know of easier game where the chase has more chance of success,
and so they move on.
The baboons must leave their rocky ramparts to feed,
for they are fanciers of tender grasses, seeds, and insects.
And so for protection, they travel in troops, numbering from 50 to 100.
The baboon possesses both manual dexterity
and a discriminating eye,
and only the choicest pickings satisfy his finicky palate.
Favorite on his list of delicacies are the stalks of water lilies.
The baby baboon is something only a baboon could love.
And he certainly gives little hint that he's a child prodigy.
The moment he finds himself a tree, however, his talents bloom.
He's a natural-born trapeze artist.
Baboons are playful, mischievous and full of pranks,
and the youngsters carry on a game
that is one long practical joke on each other.
All this seems to develop a sort of good-natured tolerance,
and family discipline is seldom very strict.
Both parents participate in bringing up the young,
and Father's just as willing to baby-sit as Mother.
But sometimes Junior isn't as willing as Father.
There's never a dull moment in a colony of baboons.
Besides intelligence, they possess a sense of humor, too,
and it shows up at the most unexpected moments.
The worst enemy of the baboons is the leopard,
often called the tiger of Africa.
He's not a true tiger, of course. Their home is in Asia.
But for ferocity and cunning, he more than takes their place.
Because of the leopards,
young baboons are never allowed to stray off alone.
Mother's watchful eye is always on them.
(SCREECHING)
And wherever she goes, baby goes, too, tucked away in a lower berth.
When he's a bit older, the youngster rides in the rumble seat.
This keeps him from being underfoot
when the baboons drink with the herds at the water hole.
In the kingdom of the African lion, there are birds of many kinds.
And here's one who demonstrates nature's flair for the freakish,
the ostrich.
Seven feet tall, he towers above the grazing animals.
He's the largest of all her feathered species.
Technically, this is a bird,
but he can't fly, can't sing, can't even perch in a tree.
In fact, ostriches can't do any of the things birds are supposed to do,
except lay the world's largest eggs and raise extra-large families.
Twenty or more is the usual number in the brood,
and it takes both parents to ride herd on this many youngsters.
Here, the drab-colored hens have charge,
but just as often, it's the dapper male who's on duty.
Lacking the power of flight,
they've developed their own technique for survival.
In this land where so many predators roam,
they depend on long, strong legs to carry them away from enemies.
With their enormous stride,
they can do upwards of 40 miles an hour.
Long-legged birds are common in the lion's domain.
He plays host to storks and cranes of every sort.
The crowned crane is a frequent visitor.
He comes bent on courtship,
and he goes about it in a flamboyant fashion.
And here's a strutter called the greater bustard.
He goes a-wooing fluffed-out fore and aft.
It's hard to tell whether he's coming or going.
And in this state, even he's not sure.
But when it comes to really high-class strutting,
you can't just out-step the secretary bird.
He's not showing off, though. This is serious business.
He's beating the bush for his dinner.
This is how he kicks up a meal of insects and small reptiles.
The feathers sticking out of his head gave him his name.
They resemble the old-fashioned quill pens stuck behind a secretary's ear.
The courser is a wading bird who practically never wades.
He gets his living on the dry plains,
and in the process, performs a peculiar dance.
And when he trips the light fantastic, it's a triple trip with a double dip.
(CHIRPING)
In the kingdom of the African lion, there are only two seasons:
wet and dry.
For the grazing animals,
this simply means a time when water holes are numerous
and a time when they're not.
For these nomads, life depends on good water and good grass.
It's when the grass is new that the young are born.
At birth, the wildebeest calf is weak,
yet is expected to accomplish the near-impossible.
In a matter of seconds, he must learn to walk and to run,
for on these wide plains, fleetness of foot is the only protection.
The predators of the plain are many, and it's the young they pursue most.
Quick to size up an opportunity, the leopard plans his strategy.
He knows that the wildebeest, though fleet of foot, are slow-witted.
He will turn their stupidity to his advantage.
The leopard hunts by stealth, and now he moves toward a likely-looking tree,
for his specialty is ambush from overhead.
A leopard that guesses wrong goes hungry,
but some strange instinct has told him the herd will pass this way.
And so, for the moment, he's content to watch and wait.
Sure enough, his guess was a good one.
And now, the leopard goes about his deadly business
with a grim deliberation.
He knows he'll have only one chance.
The instant he reveals himself, the herd will stampede.
He moves lower, closer.
The nearer he gets, the less chance of a miss.
And all the while, the milling herd has no hint of his presence.
Now he drops.
When the leopard strikes, it's like a lightning bolt from the sky,
and for hours afterwards,
the wildebeest will mill about in wild confusion.
Sometimes, the African drama is harsh,
yet this is the reality of Africa.
Life and death, a cycle in endless repetition.
And this is nature's way.
Some shall live for tomorrow, and some shall die today.
And so, what is tragedy for one means survival for another.
Before he dines, however,
the leopard carries his prize into the tree.
This is a practice typical of leopards,
their way of refusing to share with the scavengers of the plain.
Among the great cats of Africa,
the cheetah is a matchless hunter, surpassing even the leopard.
Records of her prowess exist from ancient times,
for Egyptian hieroglyphics portray the cheetah in action.
The kings of Egypt recognized the animals' amazing abilities,
and they trained these graceful creatures as royal hunting cats.
Slim at the waist, long through the shoulder,
the cheetah looks more like a greyhound than a cat.
She walks high like a hound,
and this added height gives her an abnormal stride.
An extra-large chest, great lung capacity, rangy muscles
all mean tremendous endurance.
Strangely, one part of her seems undersized,
the small head jutting out like some sort of gargoyle.
It almost appears to have been placed on the wrong body.
And yet it suits nature's purpose,
for everything about the cheetah is streamlined for super-speed.
Here is the swiftest runner in all the animal kingdom.
Full out, she can do an incredible 80 miles an hour.
And so, she simply runs her prey into the ground.
The sight of a cheetah on the prowl alerts the gazelles.
They grow tense, ready for instant flight.
When the cat-greyhound slips into her ground-consuming stride,
the herd knows it's time to scatter.
In their panic, some run directly alongside.
But the cat ignores them.
She's picked her victim somewhere up ahead.
One among all these is doomed,
unless some miraculous escape takes place.
And in a race with a cheetah, few escape.
Living as they do, in the midst of teeming herds,
it would seem the lions would never go hungry.
And yet, the task of making a kill isn't as easy as it looks.
It involves strategy and skill, and sometimes, downright luck.
Day in, day out, the male lion seems to do little of the actual hunting.
Lazy as ever, His Majesty sits on the sidelines and strikes a kingly pose,
while the role of provider is left to the ladies.
And so, it's the lioness who must take the field.
Her problem is to get close to her prey.
Unlike the cheetah, she's only good for a short sprint.
After that, the hoofed animals can easily outdistance her.
She must reach these wildebeest
before they have a chance to get underway.
It seems a simple matter to come within striking distance,
yet it requires all the stealth at her command.
After this first failure, the lioness saves her energy.
At this rate, the hunt may be long and discouraging.
If only friend-husband would do his part here, things might be easier.
A vain hope, however,
for the royal spouse still rests on his laurels
and wonders what's holding up lunch.
But this is no time to worry about lazy males.
There's a meal yet to be won, and a whole pride to be fed.
And now the ladies join forces to work a strategy commonly used by lions.
The leader circles on a roundabout course to get behind the herd.
Meanwhile, her colleagues approach from the front.
They walk in plain sight,
their purpose, to distract the herd's attention.
The trap is about to be sprung.
But now the wildebeest detects her presence.
But with lions behind and lions in front, which way shall he run?
Instinctively, the lioness seizes the jugular vein.
The end is quick and sure.
Once a kill is made, it must be shared with the rest of the pride.
And now as the clan begins to gather, His Majesty, at last, bestirs himself.
Hungry lions seem to materialize from everywhere.
Uncles, aunts, cousins, nieces, nephews,
all come on the double to claim a portion of the feast.
Given the chance to dine, lions gorge themselves,
fighting each other for the choicest bits.
Against all these mighty appetites, a single kill doesn't last long.
And all across the African plain,
this ancient pattern is repeated again and again.
One day, it's a zebra who falls prey to the pride.
The victims vary, but the outcome is the same,
food for the lions and their cubs.
On rare occasions, a young giraffe is the casualty,
for even among the most wary, luck may eventually run out.
There are times when the king of beasts
tries to keep the dinner all to himself, and then bitter squabbles develop.
It's quite a trick, keeping a carcass from the rest of the pride.
But here's a lioness who's managed to reserve a remnant for her cubs.
And now she drags it toward their hiding place.
If she's lucky, she and her youngsters will have a banquet all to themselves.
But she's forgotten the scavengers.
Now the jackals join the parade, ready to dart in at the first opportunity.
They're experts at petty theft,
for they spend their lives following the lions and living on their leavings.
These fearless little thieves will face a lioness anytime,
when her back is turned.
Now the hyenas pop up from nowhere, anxious to join the party.
And overhead, the vultures materialize out of thin air
and drop in for a free meal.
Vulture, jackal, hyena, scavengers all.
Yet even these, nature counts useful
for they serve her purpose in keeping the plain free of carrion.
By the time these hangers-on have taken their toll, there's not much left.
Finally, it's a battle for the bare bones.
This contest between the lioness and her camp followers never ends,
except in a momentary stand-off,
yet this is nature's way of providing for all.
The lions kill that many may survive.
And, of course, this includes the families of the scavengers.
This is nature's plan,
that every scrap of food on the plain find its way to some hungry mouth.
On the ground below, meanwhile, the lion cubs arrive.
And it's a meager meal they find waiting.
Other members of the pride come forward, too,
to mighty slim pickings,
for after doing all the work, this is the lion's share.
And poor Mother, as usual, ends up with the part that went over the hill last.
Since the little meal had to go such a long way,
the hunt continues.
And now the pride tries a different tack.
They move into heavy brush
in the hope of taking their prey by surprise.
And here's their chance.
A herd of impala at their watering place.
Now the pride has a problem in tactics.
This species of antelope is, perhaps, the most difficult of all to catch.
They decide on a direct attack,
and the shock of a sudden appearance has its effect.
Now every lioness is on her own.
The trick is to panic the impala,
and then try to cut them down as they run by.
Here's a game of speed and wits, with a good portion of luck thrown in.
Of all the hardships nature imposes upon her African creatures,
there's none so severe as the annual drought.
The dry season affects all, from the largest to the smallest.
Even the native catfish are hard-pressed for water
as their diminishing pools dry up one by one.
The few drinking places that remain are in constant use.
And the trails to water become deep-grooved
across the parched plain.
The elephants meet the emergency with an amazing display of memory.
They return to the place where the river once ran,
and they dig their own wells in the dry riverbeds.
They seem able to scent moisture, even when it's underground.
Suddenly, like great fans,
the elephant's ears stand out to catch a distant sound.
(THUMPING)
In spite of his natural caution, he moves toward it,
trunk raised to test the air.
It's a strange sound, one he doesn't recognize,
for it's unlike anything he's ever heard.
He follows it to its source.
And here at the one remaining mud hole,
he comes upon a desperate drama.
A rhinoceros is trapped in the churned-up mud.
(GRUNTING)
Completely frustrated, he beats his head on the ground
and cries out for help.
Another rhino drinks,
and he takes but a passing interest in this strange dilemma,
even as it must have been in the time of dinosaurs,
for here is a fossil in the making.
This is exactly how the great beasts of the past were caught
and their remains preserved.
Here at the water hole, the same trap awaits all comers.
But some are lucky. They tempt fate, yet walk away.
In growing panic,
the trapped rhino renews his frantic exertions.
But two tons is a lot to move when it's bogged down like this.
His wild groans attract some baboons.
These intelligent creatures, at least,
are willing to study his problem for a moment.
One, in fact, tries to think of something helpful.
But in the end, the baboons can do nothing.
The elephant, too, has come only to drink.
And finally, he finds the rhino's agony so upsetting, he panics.
And like all the lesser creatures, the mighty elephant runs away.
And so the rhino must face his strange destiny
deserted by nature herself.
Beneath the tropical sun, the heated air of the plain rises in spiral columns.
And now, the whirlwinds called dust devils
dance across the scorched earth.
But this is only the prelude. Soon, the dust storms begin.
And now, a mass migration begins.
Now the herds must leave this parched country
to look for a new water hole
somewhere beyond the reach of this blistering heat.
Beset by thirst and heat and hunger,
they must, somehow, out-walk and outlast the drought.
The lions make the trek, too,
and hunter and hunted march together, driven by the common enemy, thirst.
Before long, this ordeal takes on the quality of a nightmare,
and the silent giraffes stalk this land of desolation
like ghost figures in a dream.
The fierce African sun casts a fiery pall over the scene.
Desperately, the elephants search the winds for moisture and find none.
Day after day, this burning disk circles the sky,
and still there's no relief.
Nature, it would seem, is without mercy.
Yet, this is Africa, the real and the ruthless Africa,
where survival is only for those able to endure hardship.
For weeks on end, the trek continues,
and eventually, the herds reach new pasture.
And yet, grass without water isn't enough,
and so they must keep plodding on,
looking for a drinking place that doesn't seem to exist.
In their aimless travels,
the animals seem to lose their instinctive sense of direction.
The migration swings in a great circle.
And without being aware of their mistake,
the marching regiments turn back
in the direction from which they've come.
They seem to head toward the dust storm again,
but what looks like a dust cloud is a swarm of locusts,
a buzzing mass of ravenous insects come to scourge the plain.
Like storm-driven cattle,
the wildebeest move without plan or purpose in this blinding blizzard.
This unchecked tide numbs the very senses.
Interrupted at her meal,
the lioness watches, stupefied and uncomprehending.
The locust is a species of grasshopper. He eats natural pasture.
Individually, he consumes only single blades of grass,
yet when he descends in a living carpet,
he and his millions devastate the land.
Here's a threat to all the grazing herds,
for if the grass is destroyed, their future is dark.
Yet, what is famine for one is often feast for another.
Now the storks descend on the scene.
Still, neither a thousand storks nor a thousand thousand storks
could begin to control this plague.
These millions of shimmering wings actually filter the light of day.
Soon, an ominous glow settles over the land.
In nature's plan, however,
uncontrolled calamity cannot go unchallenged.
Although the locusts devour every living blade of grass,
though they denude the earth to the bare rocks,
nature will restore her world and bring again new life.
This she does with the tropical rains.
These seasonal showers are the fountain of life,
renewing and rebuilding and refreshing
creature and countryside alike.
Now the grazing herds will have good water and good grass again.
But what affects some must affect all.
Yet, like all the other animals,
the lions must accept what nature brings.
And the rains must fall on this ancient land
as surely as the sun must follow the storm.
And so the seasons turn in their cycle.
And once again, the lion surveys the great plain
where his subjects roam far and wide across its endless reaches.
Zebra, wildebeest, hartebeest and kudu.
Sable antelope, warthog, ostrich and rhino.
Hippo, elephant, giraffe and baboon.
Impala, hyena, wild dog and jackal.
All these and many more pay homage to the African lion.
With his story told,
our True-Life Adventure ends as it began,
in the shadow of Kilimanjaro.
And for as long as this silent sentinel stands guard over the lion's realm,
so long shall the king of beasts play out his role unchallenged
in the primitive pageant of nature's Africa.