What I did see were impala. They were everywhere. The locals called them bush burgers. Everyone ate impalas, they said. Even grass ate impalas after the lions and hyenas had their fill of them.
I was rather surprised to stumble across a dung beetle on one of our walking tours. Nobody else saw it. Nobody else was looking. It was a Contiki tour, after all. I’ve been on two Contiki tours, and I came away with the impression that the under 35 set doesn’t seem that interested in wildlife or history when on tours dedicated to wildlife sighting, or ancient history viewing. What I found was that the under 35 crowd was more interested in partying, drinking, and hooking up. That said, I saw a dung beetle. I also spotted a Greater Kudu as it crossed the path we were following. I’ve no idea how they missed it (granted, if you blinked you’d have missed it), but if you’re more interested in gabbing and sourcing out your next hook-up, you’re bound to miss a lot.
Some things are hard to miss. Hippos, for instance. One charged me while on a causeway. The others scattered, running the last stretch to be away from it as it lunged through the water at me. I did a quick calculation. I considered how tall a hippo might be, I considered how high the pool could possibly buoy it up once it finished charging me. Lastly, I surveyed the height of the causeway. It was a pen, after all. I crouched down, watching its approach. I watched it rise up. And I watched it fall back without having reached any closer than eight feet from the lip of the causeway. I stood as it bellowed, then walked back to the others who were watching me throughout. “I thought you were engineers,” I said to the arrogant duo from Calgary who’d led the panicked rush. We were never on very good terms after that, but their being engineers and I being a lowly miner, we were never on good terms before, either.
Being challenged by an elephant was another matter. I stood my ground as it charged me, but only because I was frozen in place. He rushed me, his ears a-flair, his jaw thrust out and bellowing. Then he stopped, bellowed again, and his point having been made, sauntered back to his harem. I could have pissed myself. I suppose I looked brave; the English girls commented on my being so; so, I didn’t bother to correct them on that point.
Being face to face with and no more than 6 feet from a lioness is another thing altogether. We’d been chasing a cheetah that had been stalking and chasing an impala when we came across a pride that had already made their kill. Their muzzles were still red with having gorged their selves. We’d always been told: “Don’t stand up in the Forerunner. So long as you remain seated, the animals will think you are part of a big petrol smelly beast; but if you stand up, they’ll know that you’re not some big petrol smelly beast; they’ll know you are lunch.” A girl behind me stood up to get a better picture just as the lioness was opposite me. She, the lioness, snapped to, her eyes catching mine. My sphincter pulled up into my throat. The guide pulled his rifle into his shoulder, the driver pulled the stick into reverse and we were twenty feet back in a shot.
“What…the fuck…did I say about standing up in the Forerunner?” the Afrikaans spit at the girl once he was sure that the lioness had settled back down.
“You’re lucky,” he said. “I almost had to kill her, just now. I’ve never had to
kill any of my girls, and I don’t have a mind to do it now. So, once again.
Bums. Seats. Got it?”
I think she got it.
Later, we were on our way back to the lodge. I got the seat right behind our
Afrikaans, as close to shotgun as one got. The sun had plummeted below the
horizon and the world became as black as pitch. We were clipping along at a
nice pace, the Forerunners headlights cutting a near panoramic swath before us.
Supper was nigh and we were a little late, having got wind about a leopard in a
tree, and we’d yet to see a leopard. Leopard sightings are rare. You’d think
they were solitary, reclusive, and stealthy. You’d think they didn’t want to
have a bunch of tourists about, scaring away their quarry. We arrived too late.
She’d moved on and we were still shy a leopard sighting. Almost back at the
lodge, we caught wind of a scent. It was strong. It smelled like shit. I’m not
being allegorical. The heady aroma of feces rolled over us. And as we rose over
the next rise we found out why. We were tracking a hyena. She was lopping along
the cleared track just ahead of us.
Our lights became high beams. The flood lights above them flared up, as well. It was brighter and whiter than a welding bead.
We closed with her, she looked over her shoulder at us, and without seeming to, she picked up speed. We kept pace. She dove from left to right, each time tossing a look back at us to see if we were still with her.
She decided to lose us. She dug in, leapt right, and entered the bush at high speed, not losing any speed as far as I could see.
“Follow her,” our guide ordered, and the driver cranked the wheel, almost spilling half of us from the truck as we bounced off the track after her.
I held on tight. We all did. There wasn’t much else we could do under the circumstances.
She looked back, marked our pursuit, and I suppose she decided she’d had enough. Either we were in hot pursuit of a meal, her, which must have scared the wits out of her (she did live in a kill or be killed world), or we were just having sport with her, which we were, and either way, she was having none of it, anymore. She tore off like a bullet. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anything move that fast above water.
First she was there. Then she was a low burst of speed. Then she disappeared. She was indistinguishable from the bush, lost to sight in the black beyond our high beams.
I’ve got to hand it to our driver. When he received an order, he followed it.
We went crashing into the bush after her. Branches and foliage spun around us,
snapping off like the crackling of a bonfire.
“Whoa,” the Afrikaans bellowed.
We whoaed.
We laughed.
“That was so cool,” I said.
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