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Naughty Cape buffalo near our camp. |
The first day at Ol Kinyei camp, we arrived around 12:30, with lunch
at 1 pm, not as good as Kenyan Air but still good: lovely cucumber salad, beef patties—with
fellow safari-ites Alice, Maria and Michael – then a rest, then our evening
drive.
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Topi |
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Impala |
As with the drive from the airstrip, we saw a gazillion wildebeest, zebras,
Thompson’s gazelle, Grant’s gazelle, impala, and a scattering of warthogs,
eland, topi, and waterbucks. First out
of the camp there were two giraffe on the right—then four more on the
left—then, as we got closer, and they got more curious, a whole crowd of them,
up to 25 total, from half-grown adolescents to large bulls with their bushy top
horns. Jackson explained that, although
the antelope and other ungulates can lose their horns with no damage to their
health, a giraffe’s horn is part of its skull; if it gets cut off, the giraffe
will die.
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Thompson's gazelles |
They towered over us in our Toyota Landcruiser, heads swaying, their inquisitive
eyes seeming to meet ours. Though we’re
obviously no threat, when the Landcruiser got too close to an individual, he or
she would duck head and canter gracefully a few metres, just keeping the
distance between us. More curious than
angry or afraid, they watched until Jackson said, “good?” and drove us away.
The wildebeest with their long, dramatic masks, always look so indignant; front
legs spread, they challenged us for coming into their territory. Warthogs are pugnacious, but run away, their
skinny tails standing straight up like antennae on compact cars. Zebras seem sarcastic, giraffes rather
benevolent, and the few Cape buffalo ready for a fight.
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Indignant wildebeest. |
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Benevolent giraffe. |
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Not my photo-- didn't catch one running. |
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Bull elephant in "musth". |
One
elephant, in “musth”, halted his tusked attack on a black acacia and turned to
us, eyes blazing, as Jackson got us the hell out of there before he could
charge. But a later herd—or memory, as
they can also be called—of bulls paid us absolutely no attention as they
devastated a stand of trees to consume.
Their utter destruction of the landscape prompts me to change the
phrase, “like a tornado came through” to “like a herd of elephants was here”.
Back at the camp as I waited for dinner, I went to walk the vehicle track that
extends about 50 metres out front.
Sylvester—his long, elegant frame clad in deep reds and maroons—stopped me. “There is naughty buffalo,” he told me. “He hides in bush to surprise. Do not go outside …” and he indicated the
inner circle where the guides would be able to keep an eye out.
I acquiesced easily, worn out from the long day and eager to chow down on the
delicious selection of fresh vegetables, grilled pork chop and scalloped
potatoes, with a lovely chocolate mousse to follow.
I sat for a brief time around the fire, where the Maasai staff spoke softly to
each other in their native language; we all retired early, knowing we had to be
up at 6 am the next day. After ablutions in my own rustic but quite adequate
bathroom (porcelain flush toilet) at the back of my tent, I quickly fell asleep
between the folds of my rented sleeping bag with the thick, soft woolen blanket,
provided, on top.
I was jerked awake in the middle of the night, perhaps 3 am, by a
crashing-crunching-snorting that sounded right
outside my tent. I lay there for a
moment, paralysed: Would this be the end
of my safari, as an elephant crashed through and trampled me? Was Alice, in her tent next door, still
alive? Should I call out or would that
just piss it off, whatever it was? I had
joked to friends about getting eaten by a lion or trampled by an elephant, but
now, my first night on safari, was such a thing really about to happen?
After perhaps 10 minutes of lying there, clutching the
bedclothes to my chin, I decided to get up and look. It was actually a quite rhythmic sound—slap-slap,
crunch-crunch—and I finally figured out that it was some large beast tearing up
foliage and chewing it. The crashing was
its huge body moving through the brush. Softly,
I unzipped the tent. Silently, I crept
to the boma fence—such a flimsy thing,
made of reed or young bamboo—and peered through a gap.
With the cloud cover, it was nearly pitch black. After a moment, though, the absolute black
softened to a thick grey, with shapes. My
eyes adjusted and I made out an enormous black bulk about five metres away, its
head deep in the brush. Again, I thought
it must be an elephant—but then realised it wasn’t tall enough, unless it was a
young elephant, and if so, where was Mom?
At that chilling thought, the hairs rose on the back of my neck—but then
the bulky mass stepped back and I saw the unmistakable judge-wig horns of the
Cape buffalo.
Cape Buffalo are in fact one of the “Big
Five”—eg, one of the five most dangerous animals in Africa. Despite seeing fearless Steve Irwin lie down
and roll on the ground right up to a herd in one of his documentaries, the hair
on my neck not only remained risen, it froze.
As did I.
The grass-matting boma fence looked, and felt, about as protective as tissue
paper. I was barefooted on a rocky path,
with a centimeter of rigid grass between me and one of the continent’s biggest
killers.
The buffalo, oblivious to either me or my dilemma, continued
to eat, shuffle and snort. I wondered if
I should go wake up Alice to show her.
Then I thought, hell no, I’m getting the hell out of here. My leg, cramped from my rigidity, half
crumpled and I stumbled backwards with a little cracking-shuffling sound.
The buffalo’s head came up immediately and it went utterly
silent. Its eyes looked right at the boma where I stood and seemed to see
me. Any sort of courage I may have had
deserted me, and I made a dash for the tent.
As I got inside and frantically groped for the zipper (I don’t know how
I thought that was going to save me, zipping up the tent), I heard an equally
panicked rush outside the boma, and
the sound of hooves galloping away.
Apparently, I scared the buffalo too. I
guess the unknown is always scary, no matter how big you are or how bad your
reputation.