The incident involving the charging elephant happened at the start of a week-long excursion in the Kroo-ger National Park.
We thought that the failure of the reverse gear in the car’s automatic transmission box was problematic in as much as, if we encountered a dangerous situation again, we would not have that necessary option available to us. Consequently, we decided that the bushman would take the car to the nearest Toyota dealership, which was to be found outside of the park in a town called Malelane.
On the following day, Ann put out one of our folding lounging chairs just outside the caravan under a shady tree and settled down with her phone and book for the morning, while I went to try and resolve our gearbox issue.
The journey to Malelane took some time and it wasn’t until mid-morning that I was able to establish that the local dealership didn’t carry the necessary spares and that we would have to wait five days for the part to arrive from Johannesburg.
Meanwhile, back at camp, Ann had immersed herself in her book and was oblivious to the gentle movements of nature around her.
Unbeknown to anyone, the electric game fence around the camp had been disconnected and a troupe of baboons had found its way into the camp site and had quietly taken up a position in a semi-circle in front of, and facing, Ann’s lounger.
She heard the scuffing but initially ignored it. Once the noise finally broke through her concentration, she looked up into the faces of twenty-odd baboons all staring intently at her, not more than five metres away.
She froze!
Very, very slowly, she reached down for her phone, which was tucked away on the lounger next to her legs. She lifted the phone to her ear and dialled Richard, her ever caring bushman.
The phone rang as I was engaged in conversation with the head mechanic in Malelane.
Hello, sweetheart, I answered.
I am surrounded by a troupe of baboons, Ann whispered, her voice trembling with fear.
I wondered what Ann thought I could do about it sixty kilometres away, and in hindsight Ann wasn’t entirely clear either. The idea that potentially dangerous animals could cross over the electric fence and gain access to the camp site did seem a tad far-fetched at the time.
She has to be mistaken, I concluded.
No, my darling, said the bushman in a confident but patient, condescending tone, they can’t be baboons. They are probably vervet monkeys.
The effect of my attempt to calm the distressed maiden caused an outburst akin to that of a bomb blast.
I KNOW A F#@*ING BABOON WHEN I SEE ONE! Ann exploded in a rage that would have stopped a lion in its tracks.
Apart from the damage to the bushman’s ear and ego, the outburst was so loud that the baboons were instantly terrified and scattered in every direction, not stopping until they were all well out of range!
I limped back to camp with a bunch of flowers and resolved to make amends as best as possible under the circumstances.
By the time I’d arrived back at the caravan, the baboons had trashed at least four other caravans and some of them were running all over the freshly cut lawns, covered in flour.
Ann of Africa, on the other hand, was quietly reading her book on the lounger under the tree with a broomstick next to her. The baboons had evidently come to terms with the realization that to mess with this aunty was to dice with certain death, so stayed as far away from our camp as possible.
The bushman, meanwhile, had learnt yet another lesson from the wild.