05 Sep It Wouldn’t Be Funny If…
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“It wouldn’t be funny if you had to get away in a hurry.”
Nikki’s recount of some newly purchased Land-Cruisers-turned-safari-vehicles which should never be used as getaway cars…[/vc_column_text][vc_separator type=”normal” color=”#71745340″ up=”20″ down=”20″][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row css_animation=”” row_type=”row” use_row_as_full_screen_section=”no” type=”full_width” angled_section=”no” text_align=”left” background_image_as_pattern=”without_pattern”][vc_column][vc_column_text]
Our new Toyota Land Cruisers were our pride and joy.
It had seemed almost decadent to buy three brand-new vehicles, right out of the box, and then immediately send them away to be chopped up and converted into open-sided game viewers. Our old Land Cruisers had been retired to maintenance and transfer duties, and we were ridiculously pleased with the new arrivals.
So, naturally, we decided to take one out for a staff game drive.
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We headed for Nkumbe lookout point, one of our favourite places in the Kruger, with Gerrit driving and me beside him. Martin, Marli, Brian, Sharon, our three guides and Sifiso, our new sous chef, filled the guest seats.
For Sifiso, a Durban man with very little knowledge of the bush, it was his first-ever game drive.
At Nkumbe we had drinks and snacks, watched the sun sinking over the plain and raised a glass to absent friends. It was a happy occasion, filled with stories and laughter, and just before sunset we packed up to head home.
Gerrit turned the key.
Nothing happened.
He clicked his tongue, fiddled with the immobiliser and tried again.
“We’ll have to get these immobilisers disconnected. They’re no good on game drive vehicles.”
“Ja,” Colin, our newest guide, piped up from the back. “It wouldn’t be funny if you had to get away in a hurry.”
“You’re right. We’ll have to get a mechanic out tomorrow.”
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A few kilometres later, we stopped to watch a huge herd of elephants crossing the road. They were relaxed, walking slowly, their warm, astringent, earthy scent hanging in the air. Then a youngster crossing in front of us suddenly lifted its tail, pulled in its hind legs and broke into a trot as a cow trumpeted from the back of the herd. Three cows appeared, running towards us along the side of the road.
“I wonder what’s scratching at them?” Gerrit mused, reversing a few metres to give them more room to cross.
They stopped, stared at us, then trumpeted and started running again.
“Hmm. They’re tetchy.”
Gerrit reversed a long way, but instead of taking the opportunity to cross the road, the cows continued running parallel to us.
It was odd.
“Maybe they don’t like us moving,” I suggested, “Or they want to pass behind us, not in front?”
Gerrit stopped the vehicle and switched off the engine. We sat quietly, waiting for them to settle and decide where they wanted to cross. They shuffled past us and continued down the road.
“See,” I whispered, rather pleased with myself. “They did want to cross behind us.”
Gerrit was watching them in the rear-view mirror.
“They’re coming!”
I twisted around.
All three cows were now on the tar behind us. But they weren’t crossing the road. They were charging. Heads down. Ears flat. Straight towards our stationary vehicle.
“We’ve got to go, Gerrit!” I squeaked.
He knew. He turned the key. Nothing happened. He pulled it out and reached down to disarm that damned immobiliser. There wasn’t time.
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In the split second before impact, Gerrit took the vehicle out of gear.
The lead cow hit the back of the Land Cruiser with a crunch, lifting and pushing it forward. Gerrit steered with her and, instead of flipping the top-heavy vehicle, she pushed us down the road like a wheelbarrow.
She let go.
We rocked on our wheels.
Then she came again.
This time she smashed into the right rear corner, jolting us forward as her tusk burst through the canvas door, narrowly missing Colin’s leg.
Then she came again.
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What I remember most clearly is the silence. The elephants weren’t trumpeting. Nobody on the vehicle said a word. There was only the soft thud and shuffle of elephant feet on the tar and the sickening impact of her forehead against the spare wheel.
As she began her third charge, the Land Cruiser finally roared to life.
Gerrit accelerated. Only then did the vehicle erupt.
“Did you see…?”
“Did you hear…?”
“Did you feel…?”
“You landed on top of me!”
“I thought I was going to fall out!”
“Thank goodness Gerrit was driving!”
Gerrit put a few kilometers between us and the victorious cows before stopping. Then he looked over his shoulder.
“Sifiso,” he said dryly, “how was that for you?”
Every head turned.
Our Durban sous chef, on his first-ever game drive, flashed us a huge grin.
“Can we do that again?”
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I have never forgotten his answer.
It summed up something about life in the Kruger that I’ve never really been able to explain any better. There are challenges, frightening moments, extraordinary highs and some fairly spectacular lows, but living and working in nature remains an enormous privilege.
One day, when my time on earth is done, I suspect the last words on my lips may well be:
“Can I do that again?”
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