By Mike Core
I was riding Twist, a large bay warmblood out of the Limpopo Valley Horse Safaris stable. West, Mhpo, and I were nearing completion of our afternoon ride in the Mashatu Game Reserve in Botswana. This is where South Africa, Zimbabwe, and Botswana all come together to form a Venn diagram known as the Tuli Circle. It is the same area where Frederick Courtney Selous killed 14 black rhinos in one morning about 130 years earlier. There are no more rhinos, but lots of elephants, leopards, and lions, and common plains game is abundant. On the South African side, Mashatu is partially bordered by the great, green, greasy Limpopo River. On the Zimbabwe side, runs the shallow but wide Shashi River. A well-known American research doctor had recently been killed and eaten by a large crocodile while canoeing the Limpopo River only a few miles from where we were riding. His body was never found.
It was a great day to be alive. A warm sun and gentle breeze slightly pungent from game droppings along with clear blue skies made cantering with and into the herds of impala, wildebeest, and zebra an adrenaline-laced joy. You can’t get too close to zebras though as they will kick and bite and the wildebeest are so stupid they will occasionally try to dart under you. Twist was an experienced sure-footed bush horse used to standing his ground with elephants. He knew when to fight and he knew when to flee. We passed several tan and bushy-headed eland bulls, grey warthogs caked in wet mud, one perplexed giraffe cow with her small baby, and several black-backed jackals. All stopped and stared at this strange parade of man and beast galloping through the bush together. We dodged the small bushes, jumped dead tree logs, maneuvered about rocks, and wound our way around the giant nyala berry and baobab trees. It was paradise. This was before the lawyers, insurance companies, and soccer moms screwed everything up. Now you are required to wear a helmet and can only canter along with the zebras, wildebeest, and giraffes from a “safe” distance. No more boldly joining the wild herds of game with the thrilling chases and races that followed. Some people are just on a mission to suck the life out of life. I hate them.
“Hey Mike,” said West. “Some Chinese guy just got killed by an elephant up the road from us”.
“Can we ride there?” I responded. I hunt elephants and wanted to see what happened.
“No, we have to put the horses away first, but it’s right on the way. We’ll drive by it,” said West.
I was riding shotgun in the ancient open-air Land Rover when we came upon four Chinese guys leaning against a safari vehicle pulled off to the right of the dirt road. One of them looked to have been crying, eyes red with a runny nose, another started pacing back and forth head down while the other two were completely still with that deer-caught-in-the-headlights look.
Over to the left about 30 yards away was a figure laying in the dirt. I jumped out and walked straight towards him as there were no elephants in sight. It was not a good death. It turns out these five Chinese gentlemen who were working in Botswana decided to obtain their own safari vehicle and go trespassing without a guide on this reserve loaded with elephants. It didn’t end well for one of them.
He was flat on his back in the reddish dirt with his beige short-sleeved shirt rolled up over his face. His long brown pants and white underwear were twisted together down about his ankles. His face and feet weren’t visible but everything between them was. It wasn’t a large elephant that killed him as the wound cavities suggested a younger cow with smaller tusks. I don’t know if he attempted to run or just froze but I suspect he froze. She gored him first in his left front thigh, sweeping his legs and smacking him to the ground. It was a deep jab going about halfway through his leg. This put him on his back, facing up and still fully conscious. The next strike pierced his left bicep, going to the bone and further pinning him to the ground. She then lowered her stance and followed through, forcing her right tusk under and through his left armpit, pushing hard, rolling him up on his right side with her ivory exiting his chest, dead center. There wasn’t a lot of blood, just a neat round hole of about four inches in diameter. This perpetrator was a stabber, not a crusher. She didn’t lay her skull on him to smash his lungs but what she did do was much worse. With her tusk protruding from the center of his chest she dragged him back and forth across the ground, rolling his clothing up around his face and ankles, exposing him to the world. The screaming would have already stopped. Like I said it was not a good death. I walked around him and saw he was still clutching a burned down cigarette butt between his left thumb and index finger.
I looked at his friends and they were all younger men, late 20s to early 30s, trim and healthy. I looked down at the dead man and saw a clearly overweight guy who smoked. There was no hiding the pot belly, bulging love handles, pasty white skin and flabby legs. He probably also thought he was in paradise, but Africa never forgives. They got too close and were unarmed. I should have said a prayer for this poor guy who was so completely out of his element and so gruesomely killed, but I didn’t. All I could think about was that old saying that says something like: “If you are ever chased by a bear, you don’t have to be faster than the bear, just faster than the guy next to you.”
If you ever go to Africa, I wouldn’t recommend trying to pet the elephants, but if you do, take a fat guy with you.
