A twig snaps. The brush rustles. The Drill Sergeant holds his finger up to his lips, motioning me to be silent. Thank God for whatever it is. One more minute of this awkwardness, and I’d puke. The noise grows, but ever so faintly. The source of the sound is moving towards the edge of the brush.
She eventually reveals herself, a female Kudu. Kudu are easy to find on five star menus, but not so easy to find in the wild. They are timid and elusive, especially the male, thus earning him the nickname, the Grey Ghost.
They usually travel in herds of females with one male at the center. When they move, the females always lead the way, ensuring the safety of the male, who will not move until he knows it’s safe. I’ve never seen a male kudu in the wild.
Male kudu are extremely powerful. They can weigh up to six-hundred pounds and have massive antelope horns that can deliver a thrashing to predators or other male kudu trying to overtake their herd. Their greatest defense though, is their hearing. Their big round ears are five times as sensitive as a human’s, picking up sounds we can’t.
Today is my last chance to try and capture the grey ghost on film before I leave the reserve.
Another female emerges, shortly followed by another one. They are leery of us, but continue anyway. Any moment now, the king kudu should appear. The camera is aimed and zoomed into the opening where the females are still coming out. I won’t take any chances of missing him.
A pair of massive twisted horns appear, they can only belong to him. A face covered in black and white war paint peeks through the brush. He pauses. His round ears rotate searching for danger. I instinctively hold my breath. His stance is tall and regal. My God, he’s gorgeous.
He edges forward an inch at a time, ears shifting back and forth. His shoulder span is massive, and he’s twice as big as the females. Keep coming, I’ve almost got all of you in the shot. Another inch forward. Keep moving, that’s right. He pauses. He’s almost in full view, but it’s close enough. My finger barely squeezes the capture button. Wait, why is he…? Oh no, click, click, click… he’s gone! He bolted! What happened? Did I get him? Please! I review the screen, but it only reveals blurred grey images— similar to that of a ghost.
Hisssssssssss, hisssssssssssssss. What the…? A seven-foot tall, two-hundred pound poultry alien is charging us. His knees are bent backwards, and his long toes claw forward in long strides. His pink, bald bulbous head swings back and forth on a long, prickly neck. Jagged teeth protrude from a wide yellow beak; he is the ugliest creature on this reserve, or for that matter, anywhere.
“Here we go!” the Drill Sergeant shouts.
The ostrich just manages to kick the truck in the rear as the Drill Sergeant leaves him behind in a cloud of dust.
“What is his problem?” I ask.
“Mating season. He’s loaded with testosterone, and more aggressive than the rhino.”
“What an ugly bird!”
“And dangerous. That ball on the front of his head is a deadly weapon, and you don’t want to be on the other end when he swings that thing.”
“Ick. And he ruined the photos of the kudu. I got nothing but grey blurs.”
The Drill Sergeant has a laugh. “Congratulations, you have captured the grey ghost on film!”
I laugh, too.
A few minutes later, a voice comes over the radio, shouting something in Afrikaans. The Drill Sergeant answers quickly, and pulls a U-turn, flooring the gas.
“What is it?”
“Buffalo has been spotted where they’re harvesting thatch reeds. We gotta go over there and lure him away from the workers.”
“How are we going to lure him out of there?”
“We’ll have to piss him off,” he says, returning to his air of indifference.
How does one piss off a buffalo?
We arrive at the area where the workers are huddled together, machetes in hand, looking very relieved to see us. They point to the direction the buffalo was last seen. It is dangerously close to where they are.
“Drive,” the Drill Sergeant commands while jumping over the seat into the back.
I haven’t driven right-hand drive other than the near-escape from the elephants a couple of weeks ago, and that was in Harrison. This supercharged engine, snorkel exhaust, and gargantuan tires is a real safari truck, and it’s a monster compared to Harrison. Despite its lack of doors, windows, or even a windshield, it still feels like a tank.
I feel like I’m piloting a covert military operation as I take my position behind the wheel and jam it into first and accelerate while slowly releasing the clutch. Putt putt putt. It almost stalls, so I floor it through the rough ground. It takes off like a bullet. I push in the clutch again and drop it into second, and this time the transition is flawless. I’ve already mastered this thing by the second gear.
“Yee-ha! This is awesome!” I shout.
The Drill Sergeant shouts out directions from the back of the truck. It’s hard to tell what’s road and what isn’t in this area, since it’s all sand. The tank pulls through sand pits with no effort at all; it can take us anywhere. This is better than awesome; this is totally awesome.
“Look out, Mr. Buffalo, ‘cuz here I come! Yeeeeee-hhaaaaaaaaaa!”
The Drill Sergeant cuts me off. “Stop yelling like a baboon, and slow down. I see him.”
I push in the clutch and tap the brake until we nearly stop, then slide the stick back into first.
“Cut the engine,” he whispers.
I do so, but there is still no buffalo in sight. ’“Where is he?”
“Right behind that clump of reeds, just behind us.”
I turn around and sit up high on my knees. I barely make out the top of his boss.
Buffalo have a massive black chunk known as “Boss” at the base of their horns. It resembles a 1960’s men’s hairdo parted in the middle that’s been slicked down on either side with black grease. From this angle, even at 1,500 pounds of solid muscle, with that funny hair do, he hardly looks like Black Death, as buffalo are often referred to. But the Drill Sergeant assures me that when pissed off, buffalos are capable of goring (a.k.a. pulverizing) any African animal to death—even a lion.
Even when injured by a hunter, these beasts have been known to ambush and kill the very hunter who injured them in the first place, earning them the label of most dangerous hunted animal in Africa. Buffalos kill an average of two hundred people a year—more than all of the Big Five combined.
The Drill Sergeant pulls a knife from his pocket. What is he going to do? Throw a knife at the buffalo? Anticipating the worst, I watch and wait for him to launch the knife. Surely there must be another way.
The Drill Sergeant leans forward and slices the rope off a bundle of Lucerne. Phew. He throws a bunch of it towards the buffalo. The buffalo edges forward, from behind the reeds, and devours it.
He snorts and charges the truck. I don’t wait for the Drill Sergeant’s command, I’m already turning over the engine. I am meant for this kind of work. Never before have I been more in my element. Danger is my middle name and pissing off buffalos is my game.
“Drive, but not too fast, we want him to follow us.”
“Okay.”
“Stop riding the clutch.”
“I’m not riding the clutch. Stop telling me how to drive.”
I push in the clutch and gear down to first. Where is that buffalo? There’s no rearview mirror, but a quick glance over my shoulder verifies he is right on our tail.
The Drill Sergeant drops another handful of Lucerne. I stop as the buffalo eats it even more voraciously this time. As he looks up for more, I push in the clutch and drive on again. It’s a game of chase, with the buffalo tailgating us.
The Drill Sergeant makes short, quick huukk noises, mocking the buffalo, which just antagonizes him even more as he chases us. He’s gaining on us. His snorts are louder than the pounding of his hooves on the ground as he pursues us.