The bush trills with insects in the hour before dawn. Weaver birds chitter and call above us, their grass-woven houses bobbing in the morning breeze. Our little group is nervous. We step carefully through the undergrowth, the two rangers leading the way with loaded rifles on their shoulders. We’ve all been thoroughly briefed. There are rules when walking in the African wilderness.
First, no talking. No sound at all if you can help it. If you need to get the rangers’ attention, click your fingers or slap your thigh. Second, walk in single file. Never stray from the group. Three, wear natural colours only. Green or brown ideally. Nothing vibrant. Fourthly and finally, if you do encounter any ‘complications’ – meaning large things that might eat you – never run. Running is the quickest way to be chased. Being chased is the quickest way to be eaten.
This all sounds pretty dramatic, but just as the group are getting fidgety, the ranger cracks a smile. Only joking, he says. You won’t be eaten. Trampled, maybe.
In the bush, the most dangerous animals aren’t lions and leopards, though these have been known to nab the odd tourist foolish enough to wind the window down. No, the deadliest things out here are herbivores. Hippos, buffalo, and yes, the occasional elephant. Especially now, the middle of mating season.
We hear them before we see them, but only just. In fact, we almost walk right into them. It’s uncanny how incredibly quiet elephants are. They loom through the trees like giant grey ghosts. We’re barely meters away when one of the rangers spots them and points through the bush, a finger to his lips. It’s a huge herd, twenty or thirty females. Some of the larger ones have calves meandering between their massive legs. Adorable as this may be, it’s also very dangerous.
“These are big ladies,” the ranger whispers.
We begin to creep away, moving backwards. We’ve gone maybe a hundred metres when we hear a loud ‘PHRRROOOOOWWWLLL’ from directly behind us. A trumpeting elephant. A male? Another group of females? We don’t know, but it’s loud. Extremely loud. Forget your idealised Disney cartoon comparisons. There’s nothing cute or cuddly about that sound. It sounds like exactly what it is: the roar of a wild animal in a wild place.
Suddenly we hear another, and another, coming from all around us. That same piercing trumpet. Before we know it, we’re surrounded by elephants. Horny males and grumpy matriarchs stomping and roaring. Spectral tanks lumbering through the foliage. It would be funny, if it wasn’t utterly terrifying.
The rangers unsling their rifles and hold them, barrel down and ready. We’ll fire a warning if they come any closer, one of them says. After that, if they don’t stop… he trails off. There are no jokes now.
We huddle around the tallest tree we can find. The herd begins to charge past, trampling metre-high bushes as if they were weeds. The strangest thing is still how quiet they are. They make almost no sound at all. Just that air-splitting trumpet, like a savage lament, or a war cry.
It goes on for two, maybe five minutes.
Then, just like that – it’s over. The herd dissolves back into the undergrowth. Whatever spooked them is gone. The rangers sling their guns back on their shoulders. The birds return to the branches. It’s as if the whole morning is letting out a sigh of relief. The insects start to chitter once again.
Two days later and I’m listening to rain on the tin roof. Black coffee and rusks for breakfast. It’s two hours before dawn and we’re due to go for another bush walk in thirty minutes.
It’s funny, before this trip I always assumed Safari was an exclusively luxury experience. Something reserved for rich kids and spoilt celebs. I imagined lobsters and champagne at every table. Four poster beds and crisp white pillows.
The reality, I’m very happy to say, is nothing like that.
Oh, I’m sure that kind of thing can be found, at a price. Maybe other Safari parks do it differently, I don’t know. But from what I saw in Kruger park, the experience of everyday South Africans (of all races and backgrounds) was more like a kind of extreme camping.
Here’s how it works: you rock up with your car, your family, and your tent. You drive through a series of gates, pay the necessary fee – South African Nationals get discounted rates, only tourists pay the full price – go through a few more gates, arrive at a camp (extra-large gates), choose a pitch and settle down for the night. Almost every pitch comes with a braai pit (barbeque, for those not fluent in South African), and the evenings are filled with the blissful chatter of families, cooking and bickering around the flames. In the morning everyone goes out before dawn to drive, very slowly, around the park.
Last night we heard lions calling while we cooked boerewors on the coals. They were close, out beyond the fences in the browning veld. It remined me of that sound tomcats make when they’re looking for a mate. A kind of arrogant yet mournful serenade.
This morning, the rain is soft. It won’t last long. If I stain my hears I can just about make out the frog-song coming from the Sabie river. So much music. So much life.
There’s something about being in a truly wild place that makes me think about the worth of human beings, both as individuals and as a collective species. Out here, everything has a place. Each life, each animal, assigned a rung on the food chain. Some swagger at the top, others scamper at the bottom.
Three days ago, we watched an eagle pluck a snake from the road. Swooped down and took it from the hot tarmac, right in front of us. The snake writhed as it was lifted away.
Listening to the drumming rain I think that the food chain isn’t a vertical ladder at all, is it? It’s more like circle, turning. And every living thing is a spoke in the wheel. Somehow, out here, it feels obvious.
What I’m saying is, it’s hard not to believe in the inherent beauty of the world when you encounter a pack of baby hyenas and they gnaw the front of your car like puppies. Or when you stumble on an old, old elephant, tusks twisted and mighty, and the colour of its skin makes you think of your mother’s eyes. Let me tell you, there’s something about the way the muscles shift in a leopard’s flank that is sure to remind you that some things are made pretty close to perfect.
I finish my coffee as the rain purrs its final few notes on the tin roof. Almost time to go. I think of my own worth. My own little self, against the backdrop of all this brilliant life. I smile. It is time to go. Perhaps we’ll see a rhino today. Or the elusive cheetah. I’m sure whatever else we see, the bush will reward us with a wandering elephant or three.
Cover by Flavio Vallone; inset by the author, Lauren and Kelly Arnold