All alone in camp with a leopard

All alone and the sun is going to go down soon...

Like a character in a Herman Charles Bosman story, I was once alone in camp with a leopard. I was at Leshiba Wilderness in the wild and far flung heights of the Soutpansberg in northern Limpopo. “You gonna be ok alone?” asked owners Kath and Pete. Sure I replied. I’m a bush gal, I know some tree names in Latin and I’ve shot beer cans out of dry river beds.  

I poured a generous whizzo and sat on the steps of the camp’s main rondavel for a sunset view of Hamasha gorge and its sideways cliffs covered in green and yellow lichen. Then I opened the visitors’ book. Awesome leopard sighting said the last entry, dated from the day before. They saw a leopard? Right here? Yesterday? 

The Soutpansberg has a high concentration of leopards

It’s only impalas I said sternly to myself when I heard sounds of puffing and snorting a little later. Still, it was getting dark so I went inside and closed all the windows and doors, put on some lamps, and decided to cook inside rather. I poured another whizzo. I mean, the Soutpansberg does have a very high concentration of leopards you know.

I made pasta, not my best one ever, and then emboldened by the whisky opened the door and went a short way outside for a peek at the night skies. I was staring at Orion when I hear a leopard growl in the gorge – that unmistakable rumble that cut through the night. I dropped my glass and fled indoors, panting like a fat suburban Spaniel.

I had more whisky in a fresh glass. I checked all the windows again and tried to read the magazines to distract myself but every page I turned showed leopards: leopards chowing impalas, leopards licking bloodied haunches, leopards yellow teeth… 

Oh my oh my, my imagination took flight. Wild flight. 

I am the hapless impala

What a terrible, terrible night. I could hear the leopard sniffing at the rondavel door, eager to crush my little pasta pot before advancing upon the bedroom where I lay, a hapless baby impala. Snuffles, grunts, claws against the door, the window pane misted up with meaty leopard breath. I lay still and tried not to make a sound which is a hard position to hold for a night and as the whisky wore off my mouth got dry, but I daren’t move lest the leopard had somehow slipped in and was waiting in he shower or the bath.

“Oh Lord I made it”, I let out a long, relieved groan at first light. I was frozen rigid with cold and fear. I massaged the pins and needles out of my extremities and decided to leave at once. “You did it girl”, I said weakly to myself and gathered my bags and camera and headed for the car which was parked next to an acacia tree. I opened the passenger door and my heart stopped.

Lying on the passenger seat was a leopard.

I dimly recall the wild gorge of Hamasha echoing back my screams as I flinched in anticipation of the first bite to my jugular.

Yiaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!

Loving your fake leopard skin, doll 

I was still hanging on to my camera bag when I opened my eyes. And the leopard was still lying there, somewhat limply in fact. I looked again and I hate to admit it but the leopard was actually my Marianne Fassler designer leopard print jersey that I’d casually left on the car seat the afternoon before.

I took some time to regain my composure, and I was still rather wide eyed when I went to say farewell to the good people Pete and Kath before I headed, perhaps a little hastily, back to Joburg.

“All cool at Hamasha Camp on your own last night?” They asked.

“Wish I could stay another night”, I replied, tossing the leopard print jersey nonchalantly over my shoulder.