Wild times
PetroneIla Wyatt
The tiny propeller plane that seemed to be made from beaten tin dipped and shuddered in the air. One of the girls opposite me turned the colour of vegetable bouillon. The pilot briskly apologised for the turbulence which he attributed to heavy clouds and the unsettled weather, unusual for this time of year in South Africa. His confident manner was belied by the small tremor in his voice.
We were, if God permitted, on our way to a game reserve called Ulusaba. It is one and a half hours (by tin plane) north of Johannesburg and owned by Richard Branson. I had never been to a game reserve before. But I had seen Mogambo with Clark Gable and Ava Gardner and imagined it must be highly romantic if rather spartan. I only hoped that, if I survived the flight, there would be inside showers and no lions creeping into my canvas tent at night.
After the plane finally managed to land on a sandy strip in the middle of the bush, however, I was led to a thatched construction with comfy sofas and handed a glass of champagne. I would have taken neat whisky from a flask, which I do recall from Mogambo. We then set off on a steep drive up a hill — small, squat trees pushing up through the ochre soil — to Rock Lodge, where we would be spending the first two nights.
Rock Lodge was nothing like the small wooden building Ms Gardner ate her meals in. It was more like an African version of Eagle's Nest. A pool with a waterfall bubbled away in a courtyard. The main building was gargantuan, containing a bar, a cinema room and a long dining-table overlooking a panoramic view of about 100 miles. I was informed that there was a beauty salon, tennis courts and proper bedrooms. Thankfully there were no V-signs for Virgin.
My accommodation comprised a sittingroom and two double bedrooms. As I was alone I asked what I was to do with two bedrooms? 'Oh, sleep in a different one each night.' said a member of staff. I replied that I was too lazy. The bed I finally chose was rather gothically carved and draped with mosquito nets. The bathroom seemed to be constructed entirely from bronze. I sat in the bath and felt as if I were an omelette cooking in one of those old-fashioned French copper saucepans. By this time it was evening and the sun was shooting away like a red carbuncle thrown from a window. I toddled off to the bar. The barman told me that a leopard had had her cubs in this very room and often came to drink at the swimming-pool. 'Oh,' I said, nervously, gulping down a copious amount of alcohol.
Some rangers started arriving. Tall, blond and tanned, they almost looked manufactured to please young female guests and a desperate old maid or two. Apparently one woman comes here on her own every year and stays for 15 nights. When she arrived before dinner I could see why. She was middle-aged and unprepossessing. Where else in the world would she find strapping Beckham types at her Beckham call?
After an imaginative dinner of braised crocodile tail — no joke — I was told to be up at five for the morning game drive. Naturally I balked at this. I said I would opt for the evening game drive. This began at 4.30 in the afternoon. Karl the ranger, who took us, had much conversation — about animals. We were instructed not to get out of the jeep and what to do if various animals did try to attack us if we did happen to find ourselves on foot.
Apparently, with a lion you have to stand perfectly still and stare it out. Although they can eat up to 30 kg of meat a night they don't usually go for humans unless they feel threatened or have failed to kill anything wholesome to digest elsewhere. With a rhino, on the other hand, you have to perform strange zig-zagging movements to put it off.
A herd of elephants moved towards us with surprising grace. I asked Karl what he thought of the ivory ban. If it was legal to cull certain numbers of elephants why should it not be legal to sell the ivory? He retorted that it would be impossible to tell what ivory had come from legally culled beasts and what had come from those killed by poachers.
By now it was 6.30 and the sun was due to go down. At this point one has what is called a sundowner. This involves being taken to a plateau with a sort of man-made round seat and imbibing more champagne. This wasn't much like The Snows of Kilimanjaro either, another film based on the Hemingway novel, that features big game. All I could remember from that was Gregory Peck being nagged by his wife to stop drinking.
It was quite still save for the occasional animal call and the outline of a sickle moon began to emerge in the sky. The night came like a flash so black and encompassing that I had looked up in wonder like a frightened child gazing alone at some huge and terrible scene for which it can find no explanation. The cold set in rapidly. Karl had thoughtfully brought cashmere blankets but no sensation would consent to return to my toes. I thought it would be easier here to die of hypothermia than be eaten by an animal but I was wrong. . .
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