Wisely abandoning any hope of opening the vehicle’s door in time, Hennie angled for the bonnet to try to duckout of the way of the horned juggernaut. Despite his lack of fitness and ungainly step he had built up a head of steam and was pounding along a lot faster than I thought possible. But that’s adrenalin for you. With the bull inches behind he somehow reached the vehicle’s bumper and they both sprinted around the front left corner as one, the beast’s wicked horn-tips hooking viciously at his back.
It was so close I was certain Hennie had been pierced. But he somehow emerged with the buffalo less than a snort behind him, then ran the width of the pickup and managed to twist again around the bumper and dash for the tailgate.
‘Go, Oom!’ the ranger again cried at the top of his voice, shattering the silence. And with that we all came out of our collective trance and started shouting: ‘Go, Hennie, go!’ trying to distract the beast.
It must have worked as the buffalo overshot a fraction on the next turn and suddenly there was a glimmer of light between the two.
‘Go! Hennie’ we screamed louder.
Somehow Hennie managed to gain another precious half a yard as they sprinted like Olympians around the vehicle again.
Bulky as Hennie is, he was still nimbler on the corners and on their third lap he was able to yank the driver’s door open and dive in. He slammed it shut and scrambled to the passenger side as the buffalo could skewer a vehicle door like a can opener, but it wasn’t necessary. As far as the beast was concerned, Hennie had vaporized into thin air. He gave up the chase.
Well, not quite. Hearing our cheering, he turned to face us all standing on the back of the Land Rover, as if we were watching gladiators at the Coliseum. That certainly put a damper on things. This angry beast could easily flip the Landy.
Breaking into a trot he hurtled forward, head down andI braced for the impact. Thankfully it never came as the snorting ton of horn and sinew missed by inches and continued straight off into the bush. With that a cheer went up … even louder than the one we roared for Hennie.
Hennie then climbed out and crouched with his hands on his knees catching his breath in rasping gasps. As he did so, the rest of the buffalo herd scrambled out of the back of the trailer into the bush.
Game rangers are a tough bunch and the gallows humour started immediately.
‘Hey, Hennie, I missed that. Do it again, will you?’ shouted one.
‘Why are you breathing so hard?’ called another. ‘Oxygen is free.’
A third walked over to him and shoved a cold beer into his hand. ‘Well done, ou maat. God was with you today.’
That was true. Hennie gulped the brew down without checking what time of day it was. As he did so I noticed the rip in his trousers. The bull’s horn had actually pierced his clothing on the first turn. It was that close.
Bheki, Ngwenya and Vusi, who was now a section ranger, came with us as we went to inspect the two dead females. The state vet had to give his report, but to us the tragedy was right there in a mound of unmoving flesh. We weren’t sure how they’d died. But one thing we did know was that we had some angry muscle out there charging through the bush.
‘Ayish, Mkhulu, that bull is something,’ said Vusi, echoing my thoughts. ‘Hennie was lucky. We must be very careful as these cows will be the same, maybe worse.’
‘I agree. Let’s cancel all walking safaris for a while. And, Bheki, warn all your guards and the labourers to stay well away from them. Tell them all what happened here today.’
I knew that the story would be embellished upon – exactlywhat I wanted. We had to let this herd settle down, which I knew they would.
But Hennie’s close encounter with permanency got me thinking about something else I had been trying to avoid.
Life and death go hand in glove. Death is cyclical, witnessed more in the natural order of the wild than anywhere else. And my thoughts turned back to Max who was now fourteen years old and too old to accompany me into the bush he loved so much. The old warrior, who had survived poachers, snakes and feral pigs double his size, had succumbed to chronic arthritis in his hind legs. As I left him in his basket early that morning, he tottered about in a vain attempt to come with me. A year back he would have been in the front seat of the Land Rover. Now he could barely walk. And the sight of Hennie running for his life brought this home with unimaginable sorrow.
It’s funny how these things happen so quickly. It seemed just yesterday that we were out and about on our adventures. I had been told by Françoise and a few close friends that I had to face up to the fact Max was no longer bulletproof. He was very old and in pain and not going to last much longer, but it was just too dire for me to consider. I countered that with the best veterinary help I could get but recently he had all but stopped taking food and sadly I knew his time was coming.
Even so, I was surprised to see Leotti the vet’s car parked in the driveway so early in the morning as I got back. She was sitting next to Max’s basket in the lounge. With her was Françoise. She seemed on the verge of tears.
Max tried to get up to greet me and fell over. He tried again … he wouldn’t give up.
Leotti, who had treated Max throughout his numerous escapades, including regular mfezi fights, looked at me and shook her head.
‘Françoise phoned me about this. Lawrence …
