saliva,
pellets, territorial signs, paths and
shelters, vocal and other
auditory signs, visual signs,
incidental signs, circumstantial
signs and skeletal signs.
The Basics of Tracking: Spoor Identification. (From: The Art
of Tracking, New Africa Books, December 31,1995, Louis W Liebenberg)
19
Territorial
boundaries may be scent-marked with urine, faeces or scent transferred to
bushes from special scent organs.
The Basics of
Tracking: Classification of signs
I don't go looking for trouble, it comes looking for me.
Eleven on a Saturday morning at the tail end of September.
Emma le Roux and I, alone together in the Red Pomegranate. My world at this
moment near perfect, complete. The lazy sounds of Loxton village, a wagtail
chirping hello as it bobbed over the restaurant threshold, a sunbeam shining
through the north window. I had finished my big breakfast with gusto; the
filter coffee tasted rich and strong. Emma was still eating her fresh scones
with jam and cream, slowly and with obvious pleasure. A pot of tea stood
waiting. Her skin glowed and there was a blush to her cheeks, because only two
hours earlier we had been entangled on the sheets of my bed. Now she was
describing the book she was reading in a voice that was always deeper than her
delicate figure suggested. On the perfect bow of her lip, a fleck of cream,
like a snowflake.
It was all too good to be true, because I am Lemmer. The gods
must have woken, because a faint sound, deep, mechanical, grew louder, until
Emma stopped talking and turned her head. Tannie Wilna, the heart and soul of
the Red Pomegranate, came in from the kitchen wiping her hands on her skirt.
'Do you hear that too?'
We listened as the rolling thunder grew, the direction
clearer. An invasion via the Carnarvon Road.
We all looked out on the wide traffic circle around the
church. The village seemed to pause, people tumbled out of the general dealer,
out of the farmers co-op. A group of coloured children came running from the
direction of the church hall, their shouts drowned in the cacophony. They
pointed excited fingers up the street.
A dramatic entry on the traffic circle, at nine o'clock:
outlandish creatures of chunky chrome, steel and black. Long leather tassels
fluttering from handlebars and saddlebags, four Harley Davidsons - the riders
in shades and stupid helmets, garish bandanas pulled over their mouths and
noses, arms and legs stretched to reach the pedals and handlebars. They
disappeared behind the church, followed the curve around to the restaurant and
pulled up in front of it. They shoved the back ends of the bikes towards us,
neatly in line, the front wheels pointing to the street. A final revving of the
engines, an ear-splitting racket, stands kicked out and the bandanas pulled
down.
Merciful silence.
The number plates were tiny. I read them in order. NV ME.
BOY'S TOY. LOUD, PROUD. And HELLRAZOR. All from the Cape.
NV ME climbed down from his throne, unbuckled his helmet,
pulled off the fingerless leather gloves, then the tasselled leather jacket. He
had steel grey hair, stylishly and expensively trimmed, and a boyish face full
of confidence. The T-shirt somewhat tight.
He cast an imperious gaze across Loxton. 'Fucking one-horse
town,' was his verdict, pronounced for all to hear.
The labourers from the shop sidled up, the children came
running.
All four riders had their feet on solid ground, leather
trousers, shiny black boots, adorned with silver baroque. All were on the
fib-side of forty. Number two was big, maybe two metres tall, number three was
short and small with a ratface. Number four was average, but sporty.
'Stand back! You can look, but no touching,' Steel Grey
ordered the children.
They stared at him wide-eyed, but kept their distance.
The Knights of Harley trooped in, led by Steel Grey, followed
by Ratface and Sporty. The Big Guy covered the rear. A pecking order.
'Good morning,' Tannie Wilna said, 'welcome to Loxton,' with
the affectionate
pellets, territorial signs, paths and
shelters, vocal and other
auditory signs, visual signs,
incidental signs, circumstantial
signs and skeletal signs.
The Basics of Tracking: Spoor Identification. (From: The Art
of Tracking, New Africa Books, December 31,1995, Louis W Liebenberg)
19
Territorial
boundaries may be scent-marked with urine, faeces or scent transferred to
bushes from special scent organs.
The Basics of
Tracking: Classification of signs
I don't go looking for trouble, it comes looking for me.
Eleven on a Saturday morning at the tail end of September.
Emma le Roux and I, alone together in the Red Pomegranate. My world at this
moment near perfect, complete. The lazy sounds of Loxton village, a wagtail
chirping hello as it bobbed over the restaurant threshold, a sunbeam shining
through the north window. I had finished my big breakfast with gusto; the
filter coffee tasted rich and strong. Emma was still eating her fresh scones
with jam and cream, slowly and with obvious pleasure. A pot of tea stood
waiting. Her skin glowed and there was a blush to her cheeks, because only two
hours earlier we had been entangled on the sheets of my bed. Now she was
describing the book she was reading in a voice that was always deeper than her
delicate figure suggested. On the perfect bow of her lip, a fleck of cream,
like a snowflake.
It was all too good to be true, because I am Lemmer. The gods
must have woken, because a faint sound, deep, mechanical, grew louder, until
Emma stopped talking and turned her head. Tannie Wilna, the heart and soul of
the Red Pomegranate, came in from the kitchen wiping her hands on her skirt.
'Do you hear that too?'
We listened as the rolling thunder grew, the direction
clearer. An invasion via the Carnarvon Road.
We all looked out on the wide traffic circle around the
church. The village seemed to pause, people tumbled out of the general dealer,
out of the farmers co-op. A group of coloured children came running from the
direction of the church hall, their shouts drowned in the cacophony. They
pointed excited fingers up the street.
A dramatic entry on the traffic circle, at nine o'clock:
outlandish creatures of chunky chrome, steel and black. Long leather tassels
fluttering from handlebars and saddlebags, four Harley Davidsons - the riders
in shades and stupid helmets, garish bandanas pulled over their mouths and
noses, arms and legs stretched to reach the pedals and handlebars. They
disappeared behind the church, followed the curve around to the restaurant and
pulled up in front of it. They shoved the back ends of the bikes towards us,
neatly in line, the front wheels pointing to the street. A final revving of the
engines, an ear-splitting racket, stands kicked out and the bandanas pulled
down.
Merciful silence.
The number plates were tiny. I read them in order. NV ME.
BOY'S TOY. LOUD, PROUD. And HELLRAZOR. All from the Cape.
NV ME climbed down from his throne, unbuckled his helmet,
pulled off the fingerless leather gloves, then the tasselled leather jacket. He
had steel grey hair, stylishly and expensively trimmed, and a boyish face full
of confidence. The T-shirt somewhat tight.
He cast an imperious gaze across Loxton. 'Fucking one-horse
town,' was his verdict, pronounced for all to hear.
The labourers from the shop sidled up, the children came
running.
All four riders had their feet on solid ground, leather
trousers, shiny black boots, adorned with silver baroque. All were on the
fib-side of forty. Number two was big, maybe two metres tall, number three was
short and small with a ratface. Number four was average, but sporty.
'Stand back! You can look, but no touching,' Steel Grey
ordered the children.
They stared at him wide-eyed, but kept their distance.
The Knights of Harley trooped in, led by Steel Grey, followed
by Ratface and Sporty. The Big Guy covered the rear. A pecking order.
'Good morning,' Tannie Wilna said, 'welcome to Loxton,' with
the affectionate
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