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National Geographic Last Feast of the Crocodiles
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This is the story of a pool and the |
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It's a place where hippos |
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in mysterious harmony. |
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A crowded pool... |
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where predator and prey |
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and where strange things happen |
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At this pool thirst can be dangerous, |
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and drinking... |
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When the pool shrinks in |
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there is a desperate fight for life. |
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A wild anarchy takes over that |
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Here in a strange communion hippos |
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A river in Africa... |
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It's known as the Luvuvhu |
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and where land and river meet there |
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For countless years, |
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in the northern reaches of |
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When good rains have fallen |
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but this year little rain fell, |
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and finally stopped flowing. |
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The pools that remain in the |
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and this which is one of |
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and has never been known to go dry, |
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is a favorite refuge |
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For those who have to |
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the challenge is |
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With over 60 crocodiles congregated |
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Wise in the ways of the pool, |
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drink safely, |
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don't seem to mind the few extra |
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But, more extraordinary is this young |
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who's become a regular passenger |
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basking on the surprisingly tolerant |
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Wily baboons have another strategy. |
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They dig pits at the pool's edge |
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rather than risk a croc attack. |
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In contrast, this female impala is so |
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Dazed and distracted she finally drinks |
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Crocs aren't the only problem here. |
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These impala have run afoul |
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whose eggs are |
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These birds only rest nest near water, |
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the fringe of the pool |
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But it's also a busy |
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crocs come here regularly to bask. |
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Crocodiles lumbering up the bank are |
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But, unlike the timid impala, |
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Lucky this time... |
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Hippos spend their nights grazing, |
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by day, they too like to lie |
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A large wet snout, |
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seems all that's needed to clear |
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There's no hurry... |
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and the great reptiles gradually |
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until all accommodated |
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Another close call for the plovers. |
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As the crocodile returns to the pool. |
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But it's all just part of the price |
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Hippos are a nuisance for the plovers |
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- they don't leave much space |
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The rains that usually revive |
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and the water level in the pool |
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Fishing birds move on |
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among the fish trapped |
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The yellow-billed stork's |
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but a way to tire the fish into |
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Crocs eat fish too... |
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who deliberately harass the birds |
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The herons must wet their catch |
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and the crocs watch closely, |
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waiting to move on and panic |
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Sometimes these waterbirds appear |
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and to be mysteriously immune |
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But birds and reptile |
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And the crocs seem to know these birds |
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But not all birds are crocodile smart. |
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Green pigeons don't often drink. |
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Usually they get enough moisture |
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But in the heat of this dry year |
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And they're innocent of any danger. |
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The sight of crocodiles spinning |
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is enough to frighten |
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But as the crocs tear apart an nyala |
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A hippo moves on and begins to mouth |
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and lick the bodies |
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Hippos are strictly vegetarians. |
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She hasn't come for |
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Why she intrudes |
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She is more powerful than the crocs |
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and her dominance over them |
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She prods and licks the face of |
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even as it struggles to swallow |
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And then, as if her curiosity |
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she loses interest |
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Elephants don't have to worry about |
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but they still prefer the cleaner water |
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In the riverbank, near the pool, |
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a large colony of nesting bee-eaters |
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They must forage continually |
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To cool off, every afternoon, |
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they fly over the pool |
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For some of the crocs this is |
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The odds are heavily in favor of |
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and most survive the croc strikes. |
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A thirsty lioness comes to water. |
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She tries a pit |
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She decides to risk the pool. |
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In heat like this the bees |
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Lions can go without water |
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But this one is a nursing mother. |
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Maybe the bee-pit |
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Large flocks of queleas are in the |
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As they stop by the pool to drink, |
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their busy fluttering |
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inspires the crocodiles with a keen |
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The monitor lizard is the scourge of |
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both ground nesting birds |
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It's a voracious predator, |
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And the feisty plover |
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During the heat of the day |
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and burns the skin |
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For the plovers on their nest, this |
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The bird is soaking its breast-feathers |
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It then hurries up the scorching sand |
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The plovers are brooding on sand |
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and by mid-day they are changing guard |
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Without the constant protection |
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the eggs could not survive the heat. |
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The sand is so hot... |
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These buffalo have just |
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Their usual watering places |
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and they've had a long, |
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One of the calves strikes out on its |
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But these aren't |
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and the lucky calf quickly |
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The crocs intentions are clear enough |
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but before they can find |
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the buffalo decide it's time to leave. |
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An irritated hippo helps them |
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The drought and heat are now so severe |
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cannot supply enough milk, and thirsty |
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before they're weaned or wise enough |
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In an instant both croc |
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leaving behind a bewildered mother. |
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Somewhere under the surface of the pool |
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waiting for an opportune moment |
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The most carefree creature |
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She frolics around her mother |
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that belongs to all young things. |
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She is oblivious to the dangers |
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The pool is steadily shrinking and is |
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But the hippos can't settle fights |
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There is no place else to go. |
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As usual now, the hippos subside |
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Subdued by the day's heat, |
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the baboons relax around the pool. |
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His peace is shattered by |
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He's innocent |
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and the plover has a good eye |
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...an young male baboons... |
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A sudden spat between rival crocs |
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It's small wonder that the plovers |
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A fresh track shows that a crocodile |
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This is their third nest of the season |
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Starting again from scratch |
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the plovers perform the ritual of |
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The baby hippo is exploring her world. |
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The restraint of the crocodiles seems |
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but with two tons of |
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...she is free to treat crocodiles |
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with the same bold familiarity |
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These great artist of violence |
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as the hippo child wanders |
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of gently smiling dragons |
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A yellow-billed kite checks pool for |
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The surrounding land is parched |
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must trek for miles to find grazing. |
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Other animals wander in the river-bed |
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But most now are little more than |
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full of dead and dying fish... |
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Even so, the impala would drink here, |
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but the pool is dominated by |
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the last of a group of more than |
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The monkeys won't risk it - and drink, |
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The fawn's attempt to drink |
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Now it's covered |
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The mother sniffs her offspring |
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but doesn't recognized it |
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The crocodile that has held back |
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Perhaps there is no future for it |
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The mother has made up her mind. |
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This is not the sweet smelling |
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But the fawn knows better. |
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The little impala is persistent. |
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Soon the mud will wear off |
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The crocodile reappears, |
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She thrusts her head into the mud |
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At first her peculiar behavior |
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And then her secret is revealed |
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to release the newly hatched babies |
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she has carried down |
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This is the reason she has remained |
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She would never desert her young... |
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But between predators |
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there is no chance |
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And all will die |
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Back in the big pool crocodiles writhe |
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And once again, |
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There's nothing for them to eat, |
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yet something attracts them here. |
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With jaws clamped tight on the carcass, |
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The hippos seems content |
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to gently interrupt the spinning crocs |
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But no one knows why |
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For nine months little rain has fallen. |
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And the animals risk death for water. |
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The hippos calm is disturbed |
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by the violent arrival of |
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For this one there will be |
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The baby hippo is already wedged |
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close to the impala carcass |
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The mother then does a strange thing. |
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Rousing herself |
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she pushes her baby |
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and then retreats leaving her calf |
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The mother's presence is enough |
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Though the baby seems less certain. |
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But the mother knows |
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and she drifts back on top the secure |
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The pool has become so dangerous |
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that most animals prefer |
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But a fierce comedy of survival results |
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Large make baboons commandeer the pits |
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and drink every mouthful of |
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They can scare off most animals, |
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but sharp horns have the advantage and |
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Competition at the pits is so fierce |
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that those that can't cope with |
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have to take their chances |
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A nursing mother must have water, |
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but she takes a terrible risk |
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The mother has torn herself free... |
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But the baboons can see that |
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The croc will lose its prize to the |
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But when it does a big baboon |
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The croc drops the baby. |
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The drought continues. |
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It has become the worst |
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The pool has dwindled to a mud wallow |
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and many of the hippos have left |
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But for an increasing crowd of animals |
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their only chance of salvation |
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For the plovers, no eggs have survived |
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Every day an assemble of desperate |
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These baboons, |
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reach new levels of aggression |
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Even mothers with small babies do not |
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Baboons still dominate the pits |
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driven by thirst, |
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Each day now a few baboons appear |
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Their victims are impala fawns. |
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Some are orphans of the drought, |
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Trusting and totally defenseless, |
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they are easy prey |
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Unaware of the fate of her offspring, |
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the mother ranges up and down |
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A hungry warthog roots around for |
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while a kudu, heedless of |
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The baboons didn't keep his kill |
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Yet the contest seems to be |
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as much about male dominance |
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Meanwhile the warthog sees |
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She's little slow and no match |
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As their pool dies around them |
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the hippos and crocs |
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like creatures made of clay, |
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half-formed and waiting for |
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A baboon risks all |
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as she searches |
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While all around her lie more than |
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indistinguishable from the mud. |
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The mother is brave but the life and |
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If baboons have nightmares |
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Torn between terror |
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the mother is unable to |
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She has escaped with muddy legs... |
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possibly a haunting memory. |
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Right now she needs |
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but there is none to be |
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When everything seems to have reached |
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the sky fills with clouds, |
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The spell of the drought is broken. |
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The crocs return to life |
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the ripe remains of some old feast... |
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But the rain was just a fleeting |
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It does not break the drought. |
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The withering heat returns and draws |
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The last hippo has moved on |
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and will probably die in |
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Only one old crocodile is left. |
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He was the largest, |
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He shows no signs of leaving. |
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He remains in his empty pool |
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The other crocs have taken shelter |
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from the scorching sun |
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They lie motionless in the shade, |
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The old male croc only |
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covering himself |
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Six weeks later, |
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at the place |
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lies the skeleton of the big male |
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Close by, are the bodies of |
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who succumbed when temperature |
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And in the surrounding bush, |
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are the desiccated remains |
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But there are survivors. |
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In holes, dug deep into the riverbanks, |
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Entombed in the cool dark, |
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they're able to conserve moisture |
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For some day, beyond the distant hills, |
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it will rain again... |
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and the end of the drought will come |
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No wild calls will welcome this sight, |
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And flows deep enough to swim in, |
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who is to say that |
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and the birds won't revel |
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In nature there are few happy endings... |
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When the river returns... |
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and the great cycle of life |
