The afternoon started innocently enough with a routine buffalo feed after days of persistent rain.
The bush is iridescent green in that way that looks lush from a distance but feels vaguely threatening once you step into it, the ground giving slightly underfoot, as though considering its options. Still, Sydwell set off in his trusty Mahindra bakkie. Loyal, willing, and brave right up until the moment it wasn’t.
The vehicle slid sideways with a tired sort of grace and settled into the mud as if this had been the plan all along. Engine revving. Wheels turning. Progress zero.
No matter, he thought. These things happen. Sydwell made a call just as a pair of inquisitive buffalo appeared.
Vusi and the Land Cruiser game viewer arrived, proud with purpose. Unstoppable. It rolled forward decisively… and stopped. Permanently. Its tyres sank helplessly, deeper and deeper into the mud. A second vehicle now sat imprisoned not far from the sinking Mahindra.
The buffalo edged closer, the smell of molasses-rich Alzu pellets carried by the Mahindra too tempting to ignore. Not all at once. The first two drifted closer. Then more. Heavy heads lifted. Nostrils flaring. A line formed. They stood there, immense and silent, staring, not aggressively, just intently, the way only buffalo can.
It was now time to call in vehicle number 3. Jem arrived with his Land Rover, Sally as she is fondly referred. If ever there was a vehicle built for heroic bush rescues, Sally is it. She surveyed the scene, rolled forward bravely… and joined the others in the mud.
Three vehicles. Motionless, whilst the herd of hungry buffalo stared. Quietly. Patiently. Watching. Judging.
In desperation, Sydwell dialled Johan, the lodge manager. He arrived boldly confident in his Willy’s Jeep. He took one look at the situation and nodded thoughtfully. The vehicle revved, it paused, considered the ruts, and drove in. The Jeep sank politely and stopped.
Four vehicles.
A festival of mud.
A wall of buffalo.
There is something very unsettling about being observed by a dense arrangement of horn, hide, and opinion while you dig. They do not rush you. They do not blink. They simply stand and wait.
Eventually, through shovels and slipping feet and shouted instructions that may or may not have helped, we freed the Willy’s jeep, which in turn freed the Land Rover Sally, original rescue number 3. Sally’s rescue enabled the buffalo to be fed, their pellets deftly transferred from the sinking Mahindra to the troughs, while rescue vehicle two settled further into the mud.
Our pride was abandoned somewhere between mud-spattered clothes, sweating faces, dirty feet, planks and tow ropes, and sawn-off branches acting as make-shift platforms. With a final push the second rescue vehicle was freed, while the Mahindra spent the night under buffalo supervision and was recovered the following morning, none the worse for the experience.
The floods had done what floods always do: remind us who is in charge. The bush does not argue. It allows. It waits. And sometimes, it watches you make a complete fool of yourself.