by There is truth to the adage “elephants never forget”. I learned the hard way on a safari to Zimbabwe several years ago. I was in Gonarezhou National Park, located in the remote southeastern corner of the country on the border with Mozambique, close to an area where landmines were laid during the civil war years of the late 1970s. Hundreds of animals, including elephants, have been killed as a result of human warfare – and the memory is still vivid for their ancestors.
Driving through the park, we accidentally bumped into a male bull who threw a tantrum, kicked up dust and chased us for a good 10 minutes. Smart enough to predict our escape route, he even took a short cut to block our path.
I love these Savannah giants but I get them in the wrong mood and they are scary. I fear the fear a group of tourists had when an elephant overturned their safari vehicle in Zambia’s Kafue National Park earlier this week, tragically killing one of the passengers.
The situation is almost unimaginable. But here is the problem: accustomed to the cosseting comfort of luxury safaris, we have forgotten that we are in the realm of wild animals.
A few years ago, I also found myself in a sticky situation in Kafue, when my vehicle broke down with a puncture on a game drive early in the morning. Although we had a spare tire on board, the mechanic had forgotten to load a toolbox, rendering it useless. Despite my poor guide’s best efforts, no one back at camp was picking up the radio (the receiver had been left in the bar, which had only been serviced since 10am) and there was no mobile phone reception.
Our only option was to abandon the vehicle and walk – unarmed – through thick, dense vegetation where I had seen a pride of lions tearing apart a buffalo carcass moments before. To make matters worse, the air was thick with black clouds of tsetse flies – viscous blood-sucking insects that pierce the skin with painful pin pricks, producing sores that are so sore that you peel the skin raw.
In this case, elephants came to my rescue. Setting a dung ball on fire on a stick, I used tobacco lollipops to keep the nasty little vampires at bay. While swinging it back and forth, I felt like a priest swinging incense in a turible.
Of course, it is possible to walk through the bush without being mauled or trampled. The key is to always be careful and follow the instructions of your supervisor or guide. These people have an intuitive understanding of the animals that share their living space. Crucially, they respect.
I met lions, leopards, elephants, buffalo, rhinoceros and wild dogs on walking safaris. Despite their years of experience, my guides were always alert – listening for movements, checking wind direction, assessing suitable trees to climb. They are never complacent.
When I ran into a lion on foot one night in the Majete Wildlife Reserve in Malawi, my guide knew exactly what to do. Calmly, he ordered me to climb slowly on top of a wooden picnic bench and run every urge in my body.
What happened to the tourists in Kafue was a terrible accident. The guide found himself trapped in an area where it was impossible to maneuver his vehicle. Otherwise, he would have done what every experienced guide in that situation would have done: back off.
On safari, the only thing that stands between tourists and wild animals is the metal shell of a vehicle, a thin canvas suit or an intangible but equally important barrier. If you give an animal space, it will give you space in return.
I have spent hundreds of nights escaping to the roar of lions, the roar of irons and the panicked squeals of zebras being attacked by leopards. Only once was I afraid that an animal would come into my tent.
One night, in Zimbabwe’s Hwange National Park, I awoke to the disaster of things in my open-air bathroom. The shadow trunk, swinging against the canvas dangerously close to a full bladder of water above the shower bucket, immediately gave away the culprit. Despite my boyfriend’s pleas, I was ignorant of blowing the safety horn. (Having introduced myself as an experienced African traveler to camp managers the day before, I was overcome with pride.)
Miraculously, on inspection the next morning, nothing was broken; the only thing missing was a bar of soap. After sharing my story at breakfast, I discovered that there was a thief among us. Ours was the fifth tent the elephant used to go to the toilet that night.
On safari, travelers can expect to encounter creatures large and small and ironically the smallest animals pose some of the greatest threats. According to the World Health Organization, there were 233 million cases of malaria on the African continent in 2022 and 580,000 deaths. Prophylaxis is a very effective precaution, so consult a doctor (although they will always note caution) and seek up-to-date information on each destination you plan to visit.
The closest I’ve ever come to being hospitalized on Safari was an insect almost smaller than a peppercorn. I had been warned about ticks in the long grasses of South Africa’s Phinda Private Game Reserve, but this was too good an opportunity to photograph a pangolin at eye level.
Days later, a red welt appeared on my stomach, growing deeper and deeper until it resembled the molten crater of Mount Etna. Dr. Google revealed that I probably had a biting fever tick, nothing that a double dose of the anti-malarial drug Doxycycline couldn’t fix.
All in all, going on safari is no more dangerous than, say, a hiking holiday in the Alps. Accidents can happen anywhere, even on a beach in Spain. But observing animals in the wild requires a little humility. We are visitors to their patch, and just like humans they have emotional and defensive reactions. Some days they are happy, other days they may be sad. Or maybe, they’re just after something as simple as a bar of soap.
