Look Out for the Ostriches

by JAN JUTA

1

THE South African sky was suffused with a half light, glowing green behind the sharp outline of the mountains which hid the slowly rising sun, as I set out alone to wander in search of the ostriches which were my particular interest. The prickly-pear hedge surrounding the enclosures in which the birds were kept was aglow with fat yellow and carmine flowers, and, though here and there the cactus had fallen, the odd, angular growth still created a wall too wide and dangerous for the birds to step across.

There stood the great birds. Tall and mysterious, their thin, long necks and small snake-like heads swaying some eight feet from the ground — all facing my way as I approached — made them resemble some sort of tree growth, stark against the lightening sky.

There is no descriptive word for a group of ostriches, no collective term to describe them as the old English words, some onomatopoeic, some vivid as the stroke of a brush, which were used to portray groups of birds or animals, such as a “siege of herons,” a “bevy of quail,” the wonderfully descriptive “wisp of snipe” or “gaggle of geese.” Why not a “stand of ostrich” I thought, for they looked like an undulating growth reaching upwards.

I stood motionless until, accustomed to my presence, they moved about, curving their long necks to pick at anything they could see, with a sharp stab of their beaks — stones, snail shells, anything brittle or shining which fascinated their unblinking eyes.

I could immediately see why they had been called “camel birds” by the ancients—the long neck and disproportionate head, the curious feet consisting of two toes, though only the one with its huge iron claw is noticeable and important. With this claw alone the bird defends itself, kicking out and down, tearing the flesh of its adversary with the tremendous strength gathered in the powerful legs which carry the ostrich speeding across the open country as fast as a galloping horse. I have since seen an ostrich rip open an attacking dog — almost in two — with one kick, and there are stories that even the stronger baboon has been torn to death by the claws of this great bird.

Job obviously had never studied the ostrich, even though it may have been common in the land of Uz.

Xenophon, in his writings, described ostriches as living in Assyria, though they have been found straying across the Syrian desert even as far as Damascus. He told how there was a seventh-century record of a “camel bird” being sent as a gift all the way from Turkestan to China, where it must have been received with mixed amazement and admiration.

I knew something of their habits, and had seen their large cream-colored eggs kept as souvenirs. These had been selected for their size from the dusty clutches of sometimes thirty or more eggs that these birds lay in the scratched hollows in the earth that serve as their nests. They are good parents too, the cock sharing the brooding period with the hen, and sitting in black majesty each night upon the eggs, out in the lonely, hidden scrub, until the chicks are hatched, to stand, looking like balls of thatch and wool, in stubborn independence.

I had also watched the farmers “pluck” the magnificent white feathers from the wings of the cock birds. In those days, the selected bird was lassoed, and his head quickly covered with a small cloth hood, which rendered him comparatively docile. He was then hustled into a wooden structure resembling parallel bars in a gymnasium, where, roped and held, his wings would be outstretched over the bars. The feat hers were then cut about two inches from the quick of the wing flesh, the stumps of the quills being left to dry and wither, and finally plucked in time to prevent the new growing feathers from being damaged at the tips. The tails yield merely secondary plumes, for it is only on the cock ostrich’s wings that the great white feathers grow to the length desired for commercial use and add their sharp accent of white to the shining black plumage of the bird.

2

ON THIS particular morning, I wandered along the borders of the paddock to where the hedge ended and was joined by a five-strand barbed-wire fence. Here was another field of coarse grass; and at the far corner I could see a barn where two or three men were filling a trough with water, and another opening the barn doors. Out stepped a large number of smaller birds, all in the gray plumage of youth. Suddenly, as if at a command, they started to rush across the paddock, darting this way and that, wings outstretched — some whirling round and round, circling in a frenzied dance which, as I later learned, sometimes left them broken and exhausted, with twisted necks and sprained legs.

This is essentially part of the ostrich nature, this desire to dance — the rush into the wide open space, whirling in an ecstasy of freedom regained, or the more measured steps of the mating dance. Both small and large birds of all kinds dance during the courting period and at mating time; even the farmyard turkey does his superb “strut” as he puffs with passion in front of the apparently uninterested hen of his choice, but the ritualistic, measured, primeval dance of the mating ostrich must be seen to be believed.

I passed the chicken field and reached the more distant, larger camps in which the mating birds were kept — a carefully selected pair to each camp, surrounded by stout wire fences — and as I reached the boundary and saw two handsome birds in a little clearing in the scrub, I realized the courting was in progress.

The hen, gray, dusty, nondescript compared to the superb black and white beauty of her mate, was walking round and round him as he sat, majestic in the sand. She was shivering her drooping wings, emitting a sound like the faint clatter of small castanets. Suddenly the cock rose — wings outspread, the curling white plumes waving, and the great bunch of feathers which formed his tail erect. Slowly he pranced up to the hen. Then, face to face, wing tip to wing tip, they began the ritual dance, slowly circling — waltzing — their long necks curving and swaying rhythmically.

I watched with wide-eyed fascination as the hugeclawed, yet supple, feet of each bird, placed with precision, seemed to lift the great bodies as lightly as if they were nothing but feathers. Round and round they moved until the hen, breaking the rhythm, suddenly squatted on the ground, wings outstretched, her long neck extended, sweeping the ground, weaving from side to side over the dusty surface a pattern of motion further to fascinate her mate.

Here was the atavistic dance, rousing the sexual urge to the ultimate climax of fulfillment, which has been danced since time drew us up through the aeons of development from animal instinct to selfconscious, aphrodisiac-seeking man.

The immense creature, more beast than bird, covered with the shining black, fur-like mass of feathers, the now useless wings stretched to display the curling white array of plumes, passionately stomped his dance of love until, at a sudden secret signal, he stopped, and with all the lightness and grace which inspired him as a dancer cast aside in the heat of desire, ponderously mounted the squatting hen, to tread her into a passionate coupling amid a flurry of beating wings and whirling dust.

The gesture of sitting with the neck extended flat along the ground is not confined to the mating ritual, but is used by the birds when hatching their eggs, as a protective means of escaping detection; the nest is merely scratched a few inches into the dusty ground, and the great ovulate form of the bird is exposed above the low scrub and clumps of grass surrounding the nest clearing. Once the long periscope of the neck and head is lowered and stretched along the earth, the strange, humpbacked shape of the bird becomes merely a hummock, a boulder, or an. ant heap, breaking the flat surface of the karroo, where atmosphere and heat help to enhance the mirage, and hide the sitting ostrich completely.

It is this position, too, which has given rise to the simile in common parlance of the “ostrich with his head in the sand,” though we use it incorrectly, not realizing that by this laying of the head on the sand, the ostrich docs in fact disappear from view in its native habitat.

3

REMEMBER an occasion, long ago, when my curiosity overcame my better judgment. I had been warned that during the mating season the cocks were extremely savage, and would attack anything they saw within the nesting area, but I, being ten years old and adventurous, was anxious to see the bird seated, spread over the huge clutch of ivory eggs, and prepared to disregard all warning. Climbing warily through the wire fence surrounding the paddock of a nesting pair, I set off to find the nest, keeping a sharp eye open for the approach of the defending guardian, for while the one bird sits, the other circles the nest to keep out all intruders.

From a safe distance, I had watched the making of this particular nest, and had chosen it because, unlike most of the others, it had been made near the fence, giving me only a short run to safety.

I had been told that if I was ever chased by an angry ostrich and didn’t have time to escape, there were only two means of avoiding serious injury, if not actual death. One was to have a long forked stick at hand, to thrust at the base of the neck of the bird, thereby keeping him far enough away to avoid the murderous kicks; the other — a last resort — was to lie face downward with the head buried in the arms, for the ostrich does comparatively little harm unless the powerful leg can be raisetl to tear and rip at some vertical object.

“The worst that is likely to happen,” said my informant, “is that he will sit on you and peck at you if you move at all—so at all costs ’play possum’ and don’t stir a muscle unless you want your eyes pecked out.”

Even this appalling picture didn’t frighten me sufficiently to arm myself with more than a short, quite useless stick, and I sallied forth, to creep towards the nest.

Some of the paddocks, fenced to house the breeding birds, are as much as a half-mile square, for the ostrich is used to wide open areas, over which for centuries it has wandered undisturbed, and still resents contact with a world that has encroached upon and encompassed its freedom.

I was so intent upon my object that I missed the silent, swift approach of the guardian cock bird from the far angle of the paddock, and only a sudden angry “grunt” electrified me into action as I turned to see the bird running towards me, wings outstretched and beak suffused with scarlet fury. I fled in the direction whence I had come, even dropping my stick in my excitement, and though I had only run a little way — fast as only fright can carry one — I knew the bird was right behind me, and that I could not possibly outstrip his speedy stride and reach the safety of the fence. Terrified, I flung myself into the dust, burying my head in my arms, flattening myself instinctively to the hard earth, and praying that no cock ostrich would deign to hurt a harmless, if inquisitive, small boy.

Momentarily I expected to feel the whole weight of the great bird crash down upon me. The blood was pounding in my ears, and my mind was a confusion of terror, mingled with prayers to God to save me, and acute expectancy of something akin to torture or slow, suffocating death.

I felt a sharp stab at my ankle, where the metal tag of my bootlace must have caught the quick eye of the bird, and I tightened all my muscles to resist moving as I remembered the warning of “play possum, and don’t move, whatever you do!” I have no idea how long I lay in a stupor of terror, but I became conscious of the fact that there was no weight upon me, and though I dared not move my head, and kept my eyes shut, I became aware of a crack of light that penetrated between my folded arms about my head.

As the minutes passed — like hours in my suspense — I raised one arm a little from the ground to see where the bird was, and why I was alive at all. Immediately I moved, I felt a sharp stab on the ground close to my side, which shivered my whole body, followed by another, and another; but otherwise there was no sound, no movement to betray the location of the ostrich, and I pictured myself dying, suffocating, too frightened to move, too weak to escape. I thanked God that at least the back of my neck was protected by my felt hat, and that my folded arms hid my face and hands from view. I prayed that my dusty coat and trousers would somewhat hide me against the brown earth, but a sudden stab at my coat sleeve made me wince with pain. The bright metal buttons of my blazer — exposed as my coat spread when I flung myself to the ground — had attracted the attention of the angry bird.

It seemed hours later that my aching muscles obliged me to move my arm again. Little by little I raised it, and, opening one eye to peer beneath, I could see the feathery black curve of the bird’s body on the ground, only a few inches from my elbow. My mind was immediately filled with pictures of the ostrich sitting silently by my side, watching for any movement or sign of life, to rise in its fury and either trample me to a broken mass, or peck me until, forced to move, I should be ripped by the tearing strength of those great claws.

I lay resigned, frightened into immobility, aching, yet not daring to move, for what seemed hours of time, when carefully looking under my arm again, I suddenly realized the body of the bird was no longer there. I raised my head imperceptibly, to find myself alone and unguarded, and gradually lifted my aching body enough to enable me to see above the surrounding scrub. There was nothing in sight! I waited a while, gathering my nerve and my remaining strength to make the final dash for the safe barrier of the barbed wire.

Once safely beyond this, I calculated that I had lain the best part of the day there, and was later told that it was probably the changing of the sitting period which had saved me. The secret call back to the nest to relieve the hatching hen had drawn the cock from my side, and she, unaware of my presence, had not undertaken to guard my prostrate form.

I returned to the homestead to tell the tale of my miraculous escape, with my buttonless coat and wire-torn trousers to support my story, and that night offered up a carefully worded prayer to God who protects His children, for delivering me from an angry cock ostrich.

In Chapter 39 of the Book of Job we find a reference to the ostrich that is unflattering to the bird, giving it credit for its tremendous speed, but accusing it of a lack of wisdom and understanding, which would seem to be very unfair in the light of our knowledge of the ostrich and its habits: —