Ann and I had only been married for a short while, and although she had lived in South Africa for a number of years, she had never experienced the wonders of Africa’s wildlife.
We had bought a second-hand Sprite caravan from a friend and a trailer from a colleague, which we carefully refurbished in preparation of our great escape. It was towed with an automatic Toyota Camry, courtesy of the company we worked for.
One of my first objectives was to introduce my dearest English rose to the Kroo-ger National Park, and the closest camps to our home in Johannesburg were on the southern border in Mpoo-ma-lung-gah.
The southwestern mountains of the Kroo-ger National Park have the highest rainfall of the park, and together with the Crocodile River that forms its southern boundary, it provides a natural catchment area for just about every species of game.
The first destination on our trip was Crocodile Bridge camp, where we set up camp on the fence line and settled down for the night to the sounds of lions roaring in the far distance.
At sunrise the next morning we set out. We soon found ourselves on a gravel road running parallel with the river as the sun broke the eastern horizon and we soaked in the atmosphere, sights and sounds of the bush.
We pulled over, switched off the engine and watched a large herd of browsing im-pah-lah while listening to the trumpeting of elephants that were probably frolicking near the river’s edge, but remained illusively out of sight. After a while we moved on, winding our way in a westerly direction.
Before long, and as we approached a dip in the road (which is better known in South Africa as a dong-ah) through which a little rivulet flowed occasionally, we were motioned to stop by the driver of an oncoming minibus.
I pulled up alongside the minibus and wound down the window. The vehicle was full of tourists and was being driven by a female tour guide with a distinctive American accent. She cautioned me to proceed carefully. There is a nervous young bull elephant at the bottom of the dip, she warned.
Two thoughts crossed my mind. Firstly it occurred to me that the tour guide’s kind gesture was indicative of the camaraderie that one finds so often among folk in the wild. Secondly, this bushman could not possibly concede in the presence of Ann, or anyone else for that matter, that an American could know more about the habits of the African elephant than him.
Besides which, I had attended a wildlife presentation from one of the country’s leading conservationists at the time, Quinton Coetzee, and had some idea of the tell-tale signs of elephant demeanour. I drove down the hill toward the causeway that straddled the small, dry riverbed.
Are you not going to wait a while? Ann’s voice trembled with the slightest of concern.
There’s nothing to worry about darling. I’ll take a look for myself and then decide as to whether we are dealing with a troublemaker or a show off, the bushman replied.
In my rear-view mirror I saw the minibus turn and stop broadside across the road, presumably for the occupants to get a proper view of the drama about to unfold.
At the bottom and to the right of the road, we saw a young bull elephant chewing away at the foliage. As we approached, the elephant tore a strip off a branch, swung left and commenced a steady, almost rhythmic canter in our direction.
I think Quinton had told us that if you are faced with a charging elephant, you shouldn’t run away because you won’t stand a chance in hell of outrunning the beast. Your best chance of survival is to stand your ground.
My God, Richard, it’s charging us. Ann’s tone communicated a rapidly rising fear.
I wasn’t convinced. It seemed to me that the young bull was simply showing off and was neither angry nor had any intention of really charging.
Please appreciate that there was no proper basis for my reading of the situation. It was just my view, and for while (which turned out to be a very short while) it seemed good to me.
The elephant kept coming, and the closer he came, the louder Ann protested. The louder Ann protested, the less convinced I became of my original interpretation of the elephant’s intentions.
At a critical moment I concluded that I was wrong, Quinton was wrong, the American tour guide and my wife were right, and the elephant was going to flatten us!
I pushed the gear into reverse and hit the accelerator. Nothing happened. In fact, as I was to establish later that day, at that precise moment the reverse gear in the automatic transmission stopped working. The elephant was so close that I can tell you that the white of an elephant’s eyes are not white, they are yellow! I slammed the gear stick into drive and floored the accelerator again in a desperate attempt to escape.
The car shot forward, and I instinctively hit the brakes so as to avoid colliding with the massive animal. The car lurched and rocked backward and forward momentarily. In response, the elephant immediately veered off to our right and trotted away into the bushes.
Quinton, God bless him!
You see, said the bushman to his rose, building confidence at an alarming rate. There really wasn’t much to worry about my dear.
In the rear-view mirror, I saw that the minibus had started back down the hill towards us. It pulled up next to us and it was evident on the faces of its occupants that they were a little in awe of what had transpired.
Now overcome by a sense of extreme relief following the burst of adrenaline, my rather sick sense of humour kicked in.
I opened the window and leaned out. Have you ever seen a lion kill? I called with confident and informed authority over the hum of the engines.
No, the tour operator replied, wide-eyed.
Oh well, then follow me, the bushman said.
And they did.