Memorable moments: Raspy tongues and greasy pots

When I was sixteen, I went on a school trip to the Okavango Delta in Botswana. It was a sensory-overloaded, extraordinary experience—gliding through secret waterways in a dugout canoe and watching the wildlife drift past.

However, the reality of camping on an island in the Delta involved a fair amount of "suffer-fest" labor. We were a participatory group, which meant everyone shared the chores. The worst of these was the washing up. With no detergent and no hot water, trying to scrub the grease off metal pots and plates was an exercise in futility and frustration. One of my classmates, Peter, took a particular dislike to the task, spending most of the first night complaining bitterly about the state of our cookware.

On the second night, exhausted and defeated by the grime, we were given permission to leave the dirty pots and plates until the morning light.

In the middle of the night, the atmosphere shifted. A clan of hyenas arrived, circling our tents with their eerie, guttural chortling. I remember the smell—it was thick, wild, and incredibly pungent. Lying in my sleeping bag, listening to them sniff around just inches from the canvas, was terrifying. Eventually, the sounds faded, and the "smelly" visitors disappeared into the bush.

The next morning, we braced ourselves for the greasy cleanup. Instead, we found that our cookware had undergone a professional-grade restoration. Every single pot and plate had been scoured to a mirror finish. The hyenas had spent the night using their incredibly raspy tongues—which would have put any metal scourer to shame—to lick every molecule of fat from the metal.

While the rest of us were still shaking off the fear of the night's visitors, Peter was absolutely ecstatic.

"We’ve solved it!" he shouted, holding up a sparkling pot. "We can do this again tonight! No more need to clean the plates!"

Memorable moments: Three times I nearly became part of the food chain

I love wildlife reserves. There’s something magical about them—vast landscapes, incredible animals… and the constant, underlying possibility that something might kill you. From the deserts of Botswana to the shower blocks of South Africa, these three encounters taught me that nature doesn't care about your dignity, your itinerary, or your rental car’s insurance excess.

The Botswana Scorpion Siege

At sixteen, I learned that Botswana doesn't just have sunsets; it has traps. When our tyre exploded in the pitch-black desert on the way to the Okavango, we had no choice but to pitch tents by the roadside. As we fumbled in the dark, someone casually remarked that something "soft and tickly" had just brushed his bare foot. I realized, with a sudden jolt of electricity, that I’d felt the same thing.

We flicked on the torches, and the ground didn't just move—it heaved. It was like the snake pit in Indiana Jones, only the snakes had been replaced by a carpet of scorpions the size of human hands, all tails up and ready for war.

We immediately initiated a frantic "military operation" to reclaim our territory, shaking scorpions out of tents and—to our horror—finding them already nestled in our sleeping bags. In the ensuing struggle, we suffered one very unfortunate casualty: a sting to a little toe.

The "surgery" that followed was pure frontier melodrama. With a twig between his teeth for the pain and two pretty girls holding his hands for moral support, his toe was sliced open with a sterilized blade. I’m still not sure what hurt him more—the venom or the fact that his life was in the hands of a group of teenagers with a campfire aesthetic and a very sharp knife.

The Mkuzi Naked Exodus

Years later, I was heading for a quiet shower at Mkuzi National Park. I was five metres from the block when the screaming started. Suddenly, naked bodies began flying out of windows and doors like a synchronized swimming routine gone horribly wrong.

The cause? A Black Mamba. It’s one thing to face a predator when you’re armed and booted; it’s quite another when you are at your most vulnerable, clutching a towel and a bar of soap, facing a snake that can outrun a professional sprinter.

The Kruger Standoff

Finally, there was the Elephant. With the Kruger gates closing in twenty minutes and a hefty fine looming, I found my path blocked by a massive bull elephant munching on a freshly toppled tree.

Every time I edged the car forward, he stopped eating and flared his ears—the elephant equivalent of a "Keep Off the Grass" sign backed by lethal force. It was a choice between a one-hour detour or a leap of faith. Reminding myself that fortune favours the brave (and the budget-conscious), I floored it.

As I sped past, I could swear he feigned a lunge with his tusks. I didn't look back to check. I was too busy calculating the insurance excess on a "tusk-shaped hole" in a rental car door.

I’ve since learned that several motorists have had their cars flipped by those very bulls. If I’d known that then, I probably would have just paid the fine—or moved into the park permanently.

Memorable moments: The three-syllable letdown

My friend Chrisel had just finished her wildlife guiding course in the Eastern Cape and was eager to put her new skills to the test. She knew my weakness: nothing gets my blood pumping like the big cats, especially the elusive, secretive leopard. A sighting is the holy grail of any safari.

We were scanning the bush in Addo Elephant National Park when Chrisel suddenly jolted in her seat.

"Leopard!" she barked.

A surge of pure, electric excitement crashed through me. My camera was ready, my heart was hammering against my ribs, and I was already scanning the golden shadows for a flick of a spotted tail. Then, after a perfectly timed, heart-stopping pause, she finished the sentence.

"...tortoise!"

My adrenaline didn't just drop; it evaporated. There it was: a leopard tortoise, ambling across the road with all the urgency of a Sunday afternoon nap. It was a perfectly handsome reptile, with a beautifully patterned shell that lived up to its name, but it lacked a certain... predatory menace.

I spent the next ten minutes staring at the shell, waiting for it to roar. It didn't, but I’m pretty sure I heard the tortoise laughing at me.

Chobe (Botswana)

Chobe was absolutely wonderful. An abundance of wildlife, including lion, and the park itself was beautiful with its wide waterway and vast African sky.  The only minus was that poor Antony and Matt weren't able to share it due to passport issues.

The lodge where we started from had the most beautiful basins in the loo I've ever seen.

Aquila

On the way to Aquila

Aquila Camp

Our guide

On the road to Ceres

Reflections on the way home