Open Writing

The first animals we saw were three giraffe, one without a tail. It had, Herbert our ranger, explained, probably been torn off in a lion attack.

Welgevonden, the lovely private game reserve where Leon and I are privileged to spend at least two weeks every year, was gorgeous, its green and gold hills basking in the bright, hard sunshine of a mild winter.

Waterbuck and a herd of zebra quietly cropped the grass at the edge of a small wood. After watching them for a while, we drove on slowly, then paused again. Herbert pointed out a baby zebra, lying almost hidden among the pale, fan-like grasses. He was tiny, his miniature black and white face topped by a punk-like mane that was erect and fuzzy. We gazed at each other, humans and wild colt equally mesmerized. He seemed oblivious, or perhaps, in the way of youth, uncaring of the fact that babies alone in the wild usually don’t survive very long. His dam called to him, a loud and liquid ‘chirping’. Baby reluctantly decided he’d had enough ‘human-watching’. He staggered to his feet, gave us a last, searching look, and trotted off to join the herd.

We drove on with Herbert at the wheel and very much in charge. Soon, we happened across Mr and Mrs Lion lying in dappled shade. He was magnificently maned, arrogant and regal. She was nonchalant, pale beige and queenly. They ignored us completely. As they wore radio collars, I quipped, “they’re probably radio-controlled models, made to twitch and occasionally turn their heads.” The big cats did what lions do best. Nothing. For a few moments all was quiet, except for the busy clicking of our guests’ cameras.

Herbert drove on again, the movement of the vehicle swaying and rocking us, until we saw a herd of elephant to our right. Most were fairly distant, moving away from us, among trees and crossing a river. There were, however, more elephant to our left, crossing the road ahead. Herbert decided to re-position the Landrover so that we could make an easy escape should it prove necessary. In the course of a three-point turn, the vehicle bumped lightly against a tree, giving the ladies in the back seat rather a fright. They thought we’d made close contact with an elephant.

When on a game drive in any game reserve, the rules are strict: when close to dangerous animals, such as lion, leopard, buffalo, rhinoceros or elephant, remain seated, speak softly and only when necessary, keep all limbs inside the vehicle, and do not use the camera’s flash.

The vehicle was now in an excellent position to move safely forward ahead of the elephants, though inexplicably Herbert was reversing towards them. They were still crossing the road behind us. This was when the ladies, breaking the rules of game viewing, leaned out of the vehicle and began shrieking, “There’s an elephant behind us in the road! Oh, my goodness, he’s charging us!!” Herbert stopped the vehicle, changed into first gear and began slowly moving forward, keeping a few metres ahead of the young bull. We all leaned out as far as we could, cameras flashing, shouting and waving our arms about.

There, indeed, was Young Elly. He flapped large black ears, swung a foot back and forward, trumpeted, and made a few fierce, short rushes at us. Herbert moved the vehicle slowly forward, maintaining a safe distance from Elly. After several noisy and adrenalin-pumping ‘mock charges’, the teenager gave up in disgust. We could imagine him thinking, “These humans are no fun, they’re not frightened at all. Humph.” He turned away, and stomped off in a huff, his feet scuffing puffs of dust, then shambled downhill through the forest like a teenager in a sulk. On his way to join the herd, he snapped at least three saplings as noisily as he could.

When an elephant performs a ‘mock’ charge, it is to show that he is boss, and the behaviour is meant to frighten, not hurt. It is noisy and showy, with lots of ear-flapping, trumpeting, and short, sharp rushes that stop short of their target. A ‘serious’ charge begins without warning, ears are flat against the body, there’s no trumpeting, the trunk is tucked in – and nothing can stop it.

As Elly disappeared down the hill, we drove away, chattering excitedly.

Families of warthog were at every turn in the road, snuffling around on callused knees, wallowing in mud, males facing off to each other with lowered heads, tusks seeming to bristle.

We drove past Lily Pond in the afternoon sun. Lily-pads, floating on the pond’s beaten-copper surface, were dressed in red for winter. Nearby was a small herd of shy waterbuck, each with a white ‘toilet-seat’ pattern on their rumps. Big Daddy was trying very hard to mate with one of the young and nubile, toilet-seated females. She, however, was bashful and kept moving forward, as if saying, ‘no dear, not while people are watching.’

We stopped at Warthog Plain for tea, where a family of the hairy, tusked hogs, ousted from their rooting spot, ran from us. Papa led the way, Mama followed, and the little ones ran in line behind them. They all raised their tails stiffly like antennae in warning: ‘follow me away from danger’.

Herbert set up the table and dressed it with cloth, glasses, snacks and champagne. We feasted gloriously in the herb-scented air. Three of us ladies strolled to the spot behind a large clump of bushes, which Herbert designated safe enough to be the ‘ladies restroom’. My ‘cubicle’ turned out to be a patch of ‘black-jacks’, a fact I discovered too late to prevent having to spend time picking the black, scratchy seeds from my clothes and other parts.

Next day, we rode past a clearing close to where we’d been entranced by the baby zebra. There were the remains of a lioness’ kill: a tiny, red rib-cage, a partial skull still covered in black-and-white fur, and two pathetically small leg-bones. This was probably ‘our’ baby. He’d been far too interested in us, reluctant to be one of the herd. Maybe he was ill, or weak. We realised, sadly, that even in the paradise that is Welgevonden, the Rule of the Wild remains, ‘survival of the fittest’.

Herbert continued driving. He had heard of a leopard sighting about fifteen minutes’ from the kill-site, so we hastened on, almost reaching forty kilometres an hour, a great speed for the steep dirt roads of the reserve. At this speed, we were about six minutes away, and the leopard was reported to be moving. We’d be lucky to reach the site in time to see the elusive cat, but Herbert was determined to try. Unfortunately, three rhinos seemed to be in collusion with the leopard’s evasion. Two female rhinos and a baby swayed ponderously onto the road ahead of us and ambled along this easy pathway for what felt like ten minutes, giving us a captivating view of three formidable derrières.

By the time they veered off to vanish among the bush and rocks at the road-side, it was dusk. Herbert drove to the leopard site as fast as he dared, where we hunted up and down the roads in the vicinity, straining our eyes to see through the grasses and into the trees, until the light faded. All we found was the leopard’s footprint in the soft sand where we finally stopped for sundowners. We huddled close to each other, glad of our heavy coats in the sudden cold of early night, and drank champagne.

On the slow return journey to the lodge, Herbert spotted some bush babies, known in South Africa as nag-apies, or ‘little night monkeys’. He managed to hold one in the circle of his spot-light for a while. The little animal stood, round eyes wide, gazed at us for a moment, then leapt into the trees, swinging from branch to branch faster than should have been possible, it’s long tail flinging it from tree to tree until it, too, vanished in the night.

To enjoy similar tragic, comical, frightening and beautiful encounters, visit an African reserve with a ranger as highly-qualified, well experienced, and with the instinctive skills of our friend Herbert.

Until next time, ‘here comes Treble!’

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By Isabel Bradley