Predators I Have Known - Alan Dean Foster [43]
Retracing our route along Kruger’s main north-south road the following day, we encountered a quartet of trotting rhinos, a second (normal-hued) leopard, and the usual cornucopia of wildlife for which Kruger is justly famous. Parked before a small pond, we watched as zebras and giraffes arrived to drink their morning fill.
It was south of the Ngotso Weir waterhole that we were forced to slow when we unexpectedly found the road ahead blocked by half a dozen parked cars. None of them were tour buses or park vehicles. All were private transport like our own. Seeing that everyone was looking in the same direction, we turned our attention toward the source of all the interest. It didn’t take much searching to locate it.
A pride had made an impala kill close to the road and was tearing into the morning meal with typical predatory gusto. Deep-throated roars and domineering growls filled the air. One by one, too soon jaded by the sight or too locked into a predetermined travel schedule, the other vehicles moved off and continued on their way. Eventually, only ours and one other car were left.
A male lion attempted to approach the carcass, on which a pair of cubs was now feeding. Their mother drove him off with a furious charge, ferocious snarl, and flurry of flailing paws that set the male up on his hind legs and would have had any professional wildlife documentarian’s camera running full-out. I managed to record a little of the explosive action, albeit while having to shoot over Ron’s shoulder. When things settled down again, the other remaining car started up and came toward us. Stopping on my side, the driver rolled his window down halfway, nodded toward the front of our vehicle, and spoke with some concern in his voice.
“Say, did you know that your front left tire is completely flat?”
My mind still reeling from the image of charging female lion and towering male, I digested this information blankly. While commendably pithy, I’m afraid my polite response to our fellow traveler’s query fell somewhat short of memorable.
“Really?” I mumbled.
The man nodded, his expression somber. “Completely flat.”
I looked at Ron. Ron looked at me. I looked back at the helpful visitor in the other car. The nearest help was at Timbavati Camp, ten miles away. Our concerned fellow travelers were not going that direction. They were headed due south and had a schedule to keep. What to do?
“Listen,” I told him, “when you get to Satara, would you tell them that they’ve got a vehicle stuck up here?”
“Sure.” The man hesitated. “Are you going to be OK?”
I nodded, secure in knowledge I didn’t possess. “We’ve got plenty of water and food. We’ll be all right.”
The visitor and his friends drove off, heading south. I could only hope that they would be as good as their word to report our situation.
We did have ample water, and snacks. Something else we had in plenty, and what I had not considered when assuring the other visitors that we would be fine, was the heat. As the day wore on, the tropical sun rose steadily higher in the sky. The hours passed and our car’s interior periodically grew unbearably hot. I say periodically because from time to time we would fire up the engine so we could run the air-conditioning. Of course, as soon as we turned it off, it took about two minutes for the interior to become stifling all over again, whereupon we had the choice of opening the windows or suffocating.
Meanwhile, off in the tawny high grass to the right and just in front of us, the remaining lions were quietly polishing off the last of the impala carcass.
Maybe, I thought, the man had been hasty in his appraisal of our condition. He had spoken with an accent. Perhaps where he came