An Elephant Bull Called Elizabeth and Other Short Stories from Africa

'Three Strikes'

It is still warm, even if the heat has gone out of the day.  You are thirsty as hell.  The problem is the only water is at the spring down in the valley about three hundred meters away, it is now pitch black and every other thirsty animal, a large number of them female elephants with calves, is making its way down the very same path.  Do you - 

A.  Accept the discomfort, drink the water from the tin of peas you have just opened for dinner as well as the last two inches of water in the bottom of your water bottle, then lie down and try sleep or 

B. Refuse to drink the water from the tin of peas and use at least some of the last water in your canteen to try clean yourself and feel a little bit more human before trying to lie down and sleep?

There never was an option C, going to the water was just too risky in the dark.  I opted for drinking what-ever was available whilst my hiking buddy decided he could not face crawling into his sleeping bag in such a filthy state.  Yes Gordon I am talking about you.  It was a trip to remember and not just for the different choices two people make faced with the same dilemma.

Chizarira National Park is a very remote park in Zimbabwe.  It is so remote that few people other than Zimbabweans ever visit and that is exactly why I wanted to go for a five night walk in this amazing wilderness.

I could describe the wilderness to you but, if you have been there you get it, if you haven't you need to go as I can't explain it, not in a world where there is little that is not connected to the web or easily accessible.

They say that it is three strikes and you are out.  Well I am truly glad that really does only apply to baseball and felons in the USA.  

Strike one came soon enough.  For one reason or other Gordon and I were crossing an area of grass.  Not just any grass.  Grass taller than your head.  Grass that could, and did, hide just about anything.  Certainly we went slowly, carefully and a little nervously.  This stretch of vegetation could not go on forever and we just needed to get through.  My nerves were not calmed by the appearance of fresh buffalo dung.  It was greeny brown and virtually steaming, there was no doubt that we were sharing our patch of bush with at least one buffalo and he was not far away.

We must have been doing well at keeping the noise down and maybe, with hindsight a little noise might have scared anything off, given it warning of our approach rather than surprised it with our sudden and unexpected appearance.  But we were bent on just staying alert and finding some more open terrain.  

Following the path of least resistance I constantly peered ahead and to either side, straining to spot anything untoward, it did no good.  Pushing aside another stand of grass  I took one more silent step forward and low and behold there was a buffalo bottom.  Large, muscular and black.  A single pace more and I could slap the beast on the rump.  Freezing in place I evaluated my options and decided retreat was the best of them.  The dagga boy had still not realised that we were there.  

Gordon had come to halt at my raised hand which was great but, on seeing the urgency with which I silently signalled the retreat, he could not help but lean forward to see what we were were retreating from.  Up to that moment we had made no noise and the wind had been in our favour thus we had remained undiscovered.  However the coming together of Gordon and my billy cans, as our rucksacks gently brushed past each other, put an end to that.  The metallic clank was a sound totally out of place with its surroundings and could only be man made; for the old buffalo in front of us it commanded an immediate response.  I went for the bolt on my rifle but it was too late.  The buffalo had half swung towards his rear to get a eye on us and then made his decision, all before I could even rack the bolt.  This time luck was with us and flight won out over fight.  Had he chosen to fight I would have been lucky to get a shot off and, even if I had, it would have been an unaimed Rambo style shot from the hip; the kind of shot that only works well in the movies.  The two of us stood grinning like idiots as the noise of the buffalo crashing off into the distance receded.