Angella Johnson VIEW FROM A BROAD
Let me establish one fact from the outset: I am not an animal-loving person. I possess two beautiful mink coats, adore wearing ivory and my dietary maxim is: if it moves, kill it, cook it and eat it.
So why, you might ask, have I opted to partake in a Ranger Training Experience at one of the country’s top private game reserves?
Well, it sounds so romantic – being out in the African bush, tracking wild game like a hunter, learning survival tactics, then sitting around a campfire noshing with the gang as we listen to calls of the wild in the night air.
More importantly, the Sabi Sabi reserve is renowned for its luxury. “You’ll just love it,” declares the middle-aged widow sitting beside me on the one-hour flight to Skukuza airport. “It’s first- class living and a fabulous way to unwind.”
But no sybaritic lifestyle greets me on arrival at the Nkombe camp, where city slickers like myself are offered a three-day soupon of the 10-day outdoor training given to aspiring rangers.
With its three large green safari tents set deep in the middle of nowhere, outdoor showers (from a bucket, would you believe?) and (horror of horrors) a pit lavatory, I cannot contain the look of stupefaction that springs to my face.
“At least you’ll get a great view from the throne,” comments Solly Senekal, our hefty 23-year-old (seems a tad young to me) ranger when I groan at the sight of the latrine encased by a makeshift bamboo screen at the farthest end of the camp.
Yeah, yeah, but what about snakes, and having to go in the middle of the night? (My mind paints unpleasant scenarios of bumping into something carnivorous in the dark.)
Inside the tent it is really not too bad. Actually, there is an air of upmarket rustic chic about the whole camp. Which, I suppose, is what most people pay R850 a night to enjoy (a far cry from the R2 100 normally charged for the other lodges).
We are a hearty party of six: an irritating 20-something management- consultant couple from San Francisco who are “doing” Africa; a fun young couple from Denmark; a very jolly photographer and me.
Within minutes of arriving at the camp, we set off for the afternoon game drive in a huge open Range Rover driven by Senekal, who is guided by a Shangaan tracker called Meshack Mthombeni.
At first all we see are animals from the antelope family – impalas, kudus and duikers.
“I thought impalas had stripes,” pipes up the San Francisco woman.
The Danes and I look at each other with raised eyebrows. There is immediate telepathic bonding. No, those are zebras, nitwit, we silently scream.
Pretty soon we are bumping into elephants and giraffes at every corner. Within an hour I hear myself mutter, oh, it’s only an elephant, as one comes crashing though some trees.
“Do lions roar with their mouths closed?” asks Frisco when we come across a pride of 21 adults and cubs.
“They would have some pretty strong nasal passages if they did,” replies a tolerant Senekal (I just want to slap her).
Our little orientation ride includes sundown cocktails by the roadside (now this is more like it), followed by more spotting of nocturnal animals like jackals and hyenas.
Then it is back to camp for supper (brought from the kitchen of one of the main lodges), heated over an open fire and served alfresco in the now freezing night air.
You would think that with all the game running around they could come up with more fancy fare than pork, beef and ostrich. How about a little roasted impala?
“I don’t eat anything that I work with,” declares Senekal, “because tomorrow I’ll have to look at its brothers and sisters.” He then tells us wake-up time is 5.30am. It is after midnight, so I rush to my tent.
Promptly at 5.30am he comes hollering outside our tents. I’m naturally reluctant to vacate my snug sleeping bag (I also slept in gloves and a woolly hat because it was so bleeding cold).
It takes a second shout before I spring to life, rush to the outside shower, fill the bucket with tepid water and perform my morning ablutions in minus degrees. I must have been nuts! No one else bothers.
They just lug their funky selves into the Range Rover. “You’re so brave,” compliments Frisco. “But didn’t you hear Solly say we should do that when we get back at 11am for brunch and it will be much warmer?” (I really dislike this woman.)
Needless to say, I shall not be having any more early showers.
We are scheduled to go on a three-hour hike, but that falls by the wayside when we spot a female leopard on her way home after a busy night. She looks sleek and smaller than I had imagined.
How many of her do you think it would take to make a coat? (Honestly, the words popped out of my mouth before I could stop them.)
“As a conservationist I don’t think I will answer that question,” replies a humourless Senekal.
Thankfully, it is time for us to do a spot of dung identification to awaken our tracking skills. Did you know that if you burn dry elephant droppings and inhale the fumes, it helps cure headaches and clears sinuses? (No more Panados for me.) Or that hyenas drop white faeces because of the amount of calcium in the bones they chomp?
“Do they chew the bones?” quizzes Frisco. (This woman is driving me nuts.)
Rangers are meant to read the bush, learn about birds, animal habits and vegetation, know what is edible, what’s poisonous and what’s useful.
Take a tree known by the Shangaan people as the toilet tree because its branches are so soft. Unfortunately, there is a similar-looking tree with sharp thorns hidden between the leaves – grab those in a rush and it will bring water to your eyes.
I ask if it’s true that one could drink one’s urine if caught out in the bush without water (or is that a desert trick?).
“I’d rather kill an impala and drink the fluid from its stomach,” replies Senekal. (Uugh! Personally I would rather go for my own urine.)
Another of the skills we learn is how to shoot at an A3 photocopy of a charging bull with a Remington 375 bolt-action rifle. It is my first time handling a gun.
“The good lord gave you a space between your shoulder blades to place the butt of a rifle,” says Senekal as he secures it in place.
Ah, so that’s what it’s for, I say sarcastically. I always wondered. (Strange boy.)
I am overwhelmed by the power as I close my eyes and squeeze the trigger. Actually, I barely have to touch it before my ears reverberate with a bang and my shoulder feels as if I’ve been kicked by a mule.
What a rush! My testosterone level is rocketing (mmm, I like this). “Direct hits,” reveals Senekal. “You are obviously good at this.” (Go ahead. Make my day.)
Rangers are an odd breed: usually adventurous males – Sabi Sabi has just recruited its first woman – with the look of handsome young extras from central casting (except for our Boer boy).
“You need to have a passion and love of the bush,” he explains. “Sometimes people think it’s glamorous [also an easy way to get laid, I’ve been told] and come for the wrong reasons. They don’t usually make it.”
So what else does it take to be a good ranger? Well, you need to drive a customised 4×4 worth R150 000. Any damages comes out of the ranger’s paltry R1 400 average monthly salary.
“But you must also be able to smell the animal before you see it,” adds Senekal. He insists that a leopard’s urine smells like popcorn (that has put a damper on my movie going -what will I do with my hands?).
There are times when I wonder about our guides’s ability to find so many of the “big five”. It’s like a Hollywood epic with an unseen director somewhere off- screen shouting, “Cue leopard!” Then we turn a corner and it’s, “Cue pride of lions!”
Honestly, they just keep popping up – elephants, a herd of some 200 buffalos, hyenas, rhinos, hippos, elephants, jackals. If I were the suspicious type, I would think the animals were being electronically monitored.
The experience is supposed to leave one feeling more empathetic towards nature. I think I’ve got there. Hey! I will wrestle someone to the ground if I catch them wearing a leopard-skin coat, or any endangered animal for that matter. But I’m not fond of live weasels (aka minks), so I’m holding on to my furs.