Trailing the Tiger in Sumatra

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 376, 9 June 1928, Page 26

Trailing the Tiger in Sumatra

WOMAN’S THRILLING ALLNIGHT VIGIL IN JUNGLE .. . “SHOOTING BOX” IN KAPOK TREE ... CRUELTY OF TRAPS THAT MAIM . . .

(Written for THE SUN by HEDDA DYSON, Auckland.)

HE tiger is a royal animal, and deserves fair treatment. To kill him ignominiously in a trap is treason.

The one around which this story is woven was a cattle thief, compelled by old age and rheumatism to leave the hunting of the wild creatures of the woods to the younger members of his species, and take his food where it cost him least trouble. Dauntless and bold, the proximity of human beings holds no terror for these aged jungle kings. They will slay stray cattle, attack herds on the roadside, and even jump bamboo palisades to snatch their prey from primitive stables.

My particular tiger had killed four cows and seven buffaloes before the villagers sent a deputation to the nearest Dutch controller for assistance. On one occasion he had suddenly deapt upon the herd from ambush, and slain four beasts with strokes of his tremendous claws, so scattering the remainder that it took the villagers several days to collect them. The last three nights he had chosen his kill from the village stock, first taking a heavy bull, then a tender young cow, and on the third night a yearling, almost a calf. I happened to be staying with the controller when the deputation arrived. It was my first chance of big game hunting, so after hasty preparation I was ready to join my host, and off we went to the scene of the raids. Here I looked over the situation, and wondered. The palisade of bamboo around the village was strong, and at least eight feet high. Nowhere had it been broken down or marked, but on my questioning the natives they explained that the tiger had leapt over the palisade, prey and all. My face must have shown my disbelief —this feat seemed incredible to me. My host, however, who was a hunter of some note, told me that this was quite probable, as after having killed the heavy beast the wily tiger will grip the throat with his powerful jaws, crawl under the bulky body, and scramble away with his stomach on the ground, hot unlike a huge striped caterpillar, with the head of the victim dangling limply to one side. Most tales of tigers dragging their prey away for miles, I was informed, were fiction. Even for the strongest of them it is a physical impossibility to drag a six or seven hundred pounds buffalo very far through the high jungle grass and dense vegetation. In a shallow gully about two miles from the village lay a small pool of sparkling clear rainwater surrounded by tall, waving jungle grass. Here and there grew little shrubs covered with a bright yellow blossom, all perfectly mirrored in the still water. In this delightful spot we found the car-

case of a buffalo bull. With the exception of a few marks evidently caused during transit there was no outward signs of violence, although closer inspection disclosed that three or four of the vertebrae just behind the ears had been forced in with the terrific blow from the tiger’s paw. The body lay half in the water; a cloud of Insects was swarming over it, and already the sweet scent of the little yellow flowers around was being challenged. It is said in Sumatra that tigers begin by devouring the hindquarters of their prey. My experience, however, is quite the contrary. The snout seems to be all that the tiger will eat of his victim while it is fresh, the rest he leaves for a few days till the meat is sufficiently tainted to suit his taste. Then he returns and dines at leisure.

Such was clearly the fate marked out for our poor buffalo, and judging from the externals we could expect Master Tiger at any time. We accordingly set a trap carefully hidden between the hind feet of the carcase and covered up with leaves and grass. It consisted of two big steel jaws fastened to what would appear to be a heavy grappling Iron with a short piece of chain attached. This done we followed the second track leading from the village. As dusk set in we reached a spot in the middle of a native hetella or sweetpotato field, on the very border of the jungle, where the body of the second buffalo lay hidden. As the day was too far advanced to go to the third victim, we resolved to make our nightquarters here. It was quite possible that the tiger would visit one of his previous kills, and we had to take our chance. Within a few minutes the natives had built a small bamboo platform on one of the lowest branches and here, rifle on knee, our acetylene torch kept ready to flash out its shaft of light when necessary we began our long tedious watch. The shadows of the evening crept nearer and with the falling darkness a slight drizzling rain set in. A long and tedious watch it was indeed. As darkness fell swarms of mosquitoes began to hum around us, and as absolute Immobility was essential, their annoying stings were a real torture. Our game could be expected at any time until four In the morning, and although he may be fearless the slightest noise he cannot understand may frighten him off. So we waited. In deadly silence the long hours slowly ebbed away, the rain continued to fall, and soon, not having anticipated this, we were wet to the bone and shivering and miserable. About one a.m. my companion lighted the torch. Its friendly light brought some comfort in our deplorable condition. Strange and unbelievable as it may seem, a light will not startle a tiger as long as it is motionless, though he Is deadly scared of a moving torch. I cannot describe the strange emotions that flitted through me. The tree in which we were posted was a young slender kapok. It rocked to and fro in the slight wind and we were scarcely eight feet above the ground. Surely, in the long vigil, silence all around save for the humming and whizzing of invisible insect life, the king of beasts could suddenly rush on us without a warn-

ing, accustomed as he was to find his way in the darkness, which surrounded us like an inp.enetrable wall. Without the slightest noise having betrayed his arrival, there he stood. No leaf had stirred, no withered twig cracked under his velvet feet. An enormous yellow creature, he was fantastically set off by a background of ink-black jungle. He was not 12 yards distant.. His eyes, fixed on the light, were blinking. Clearly I could see the wide pupil contract as if blinded by the radiance. He did not appear the least frightened, but curious and observant, as if eager to examine this strange phenomenon more closely. His thin tail was furiously beating his flanks; his broad collar of dirty white hair made his head look almost square in the lamplight. It was a priceless opportunity for a shot. A slight push in my side brought me back to earth, I aimed . . . Too late, the bullet whizzed through the still air. An enormous hound and the tiger had disappeared. My companion at once jumped from the tree.

“Why did not you shoot sooner?” he exclaimed Impatiently. The honour of the first shot had been left to me. “Mea culpa." I could only admit, that my first encounter with the king of the jungle in his own domain had fascinated and bewildered me to such an extent that the notion that I was bent on his destruction had quite escaped me. My companion said it was “funk.”

It was useless to wait any longer now as he would not return. Grumbling, slipping and sliding on the wet soil and sloping hills we found our way back, my companion unmistakably irritated, myself a bit wistful, not all too sure of the shadows of the surrounding gloom. A few hours’ sleep in the village, and at eight o’clock I was awakened by a jubilant cry which went from mouth to mouth, filling the village with happy excitement; “Harimau soedah di tankap . . . the tiger, the tiger is caught,” and everybody—men, women and children—followed us and the messenger who had brought the happy news. One by one in a long file we went through the jungle. Whore the bull had lain the trap had disappeared, only a broad trail was plainly visible, clearly indicating where the iron anchor had caught in roots and low branches in the wild flight. We followed this trail for nearly three miles when, of a sudden, an awe-inspiring roar vibrated through the still morning air —like a raucous “huab, hu-ab.” Deep, guttural, terrifying, it sounded and resounded amidst the low hills. “Allah, lah, Allah, lie has a mate, he has a mate,” one of our escort shrieked. In less time than it takes to write the whole crowd were up in the trees. As these were only too few at the moment, they hung like big clusters of bees on the low branches, one on another.

Very carefully we proceeded, keeping our rifles ready. For it is by no means uncommon that, one of a couple caught, the mate will stop and defend the trapped one. However, this was not the case. On the top of the next hill my companion suddenly exclaimed: (Continued on Page 27)