The Franschhoek threesome

In the early days of our relationship,  Ally and I escaped to Franschhoek for a romantic weekend. We’d found a cute, secluded cottage on a farm—the kind of place designed for long, slow mornings.

Our first day began exactly as planned. We woke up in a sprawling, comfortable bed and spent the morning enjoying the rare luxury of being able to laze around. We canoodled, cuddled, and did exactly what loving couples do when they have nowhere else to be.

At around 10:30 AM, we finally decided it was time to face the day. Ally stood up and peeled back the heavy duvet to let the bed breathe.

There, nestled in the warm hollow where we had just been lying, was a scorpion.

It was a small, brown fellow—exactly the kind you don't want to find in your linens. As every South African knows, there are two main types of scorpions: the big, black ones with impressive pincers but a relatively mild sting, and the small, brown ones with tiny pincers and a massive, potentially lethal sting.

Our uninvited guest was the latter.

We stood there in horrified silence, realizing we had spent the last several hours sharing our most intimate space with a high-velocity venom delivery system. The "romantic morning" was instantly replaced by a frantic search for a glass jar.

We eventually caught him, escorted him to a far-off corner of the farm, and asked him very politely to never seek a "threesome" with us again. Thankfully, he took the hint, and it remains the only time in our relationship where we’ve had to worry about a third party in the bed—especially one with a tail.

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.