All I could do was pick up my jaw in awe of what I was seeing and the predicament I was in. Of course, the safari truck I was in had to break down with a flat tire right in the middle of the rough dirt trail separating the lake with the hippos in it and the grassy land with the fat ostriches eating grass.
Welcome to Aquila Private Game Reserve.
The truck engine's sudden silence was more unsettling than its rumble since driving out into the reserve. I heard the radio bleeping in and out, and the words “backup vehicle.” Nicholas, our safari guide, then had to let us know, saying with an easy smile, not settling our fear but making it known that this wasn't his first rodeo, “Our tire is flat on the left side of the vehicle. Please remain in the truck. Another one is headed our way for a transfer right now.”
It was super obvious the tourists were now scared and stationary in a hunk of metal midway through 24,710 acres filled with free-roaming wildlife, including the Big Five (lion, elephant, buffalo, leopard, rhino). With no windows, just metal railings and single two-seaters in rows looking to the left, the ostrich was looking dead at us, its long neck twisting away from its meal to inspect our sudden lack of movement. It felt like an eternity sitting in the middle of a whole bunch of species bigger and heavier than two of me before I heard a similar rumbling approaching our impaired vehicle.
Realistically, being stranded for thirty minutes would make one rethink this whole safari. But knowing how much it was to even come here per person ($1,000 is insane, but again, like I said, worth it), I embraced the moment and immersed myself in the exhilarating thrill that usually defines a safari experience. I was able to remove my eyes from capturing everything through my phone lens and feel the air and animals surrounding me before I stepped into the new vehicle. The sun-drenched mountains, the red, jagged game trails (almost as if we were in Sub-Saharan Africa), and the vast reserve that seemed like it went on forever.
A giraffe stood at the rear end, a few feet away from the new vehicle, giving a graceful display to us, the audience, its neck unfazed by our unprompted stop, unlike the ostrich. It was as if the animals nearby were reminding us that we were supposed to stay in the vehicle, look, and continue moving, not stopping.
As we continued on the trails, the hierarchy of the wild began to play out right in front of us. Sitting with my program director's daughter, Boipelo, and Nicholas up in the front, I watched four elephants in all their massive glory emerge into view as we wrapped around the corner to a place where we could park and take pictures. It was a real-life backdrop of silent thankfulness and blessings coming together as one against the green mountains. The elephants were using their trunks to spray a thick cloud of dirt on their backs. Nicholas let the truck know this was essentially their “sunscreen” and way to cool down when it was too hot in the moment. It looked more like a dust-bathing ritual they did to show off for us.
Watching them, I had to pull my sunglasses down from sitting on top of my boho braids to my face. It was a fifty-fifty shock even to me that I started tearing up. It was like I teleported back to being eight years old at my grandma's house, remembering her strict control, only allowing her TV to play specific shows: Family Feud, Keeping Up with the Kardashians, and National Geographic. Sitting in the truck, I could hear her from the beige couch in the burgundy-painted living room, expressing her love for elephants and yelling at the lions from the TV, “Get ’em, get ’em!” when they were chasing hyenas to make them their next meal.
I couldn’t believe a family of four elephants would bring up such an overwhelming connection and memory, reminding me that I finally got to experience their beauty, not in a zoo and not behind a screen, but just as a part of Earth and my grandma's favorite animal.
The energy shifted in the truck upon arriving at the lions' home, even though the kids in the truck had a “this is what we’ve been waiting for” face, standing up for a better view. They have their own mansion of land separated by an electric gate that trails from flat land all the way up to the top of the mountain, away from the herbivore animals, meaning we’ve made it to their own territory. We got a list of rules (okay, it was only two rules; I'm exaggerating). Nicholas put on a strict face and tone, despite being amused by the car full of excitement, relaying, “Do NOT call the animals over” and “Do NOT reach outside the vehicle. Keep all items and limbs inside the truck.”
Everyone follows instructions, yet it's obvious everyone's intrusive thought was to catcall the big cats over to the truck. The lions were aware of our arrival, coming from the rocky mountains and prowling closer to us. It was the slow silence of their movements and laziness that shocked me most. I knew immediately these were lions of age because every time they moved, they stopped, lying down on their stomachs or sides for a while. It was very beautiful to see them in their natural state, but also boring, as I was expecting playful, chaotic, and aggressive lions. These looked like they knew they were at peace in their own wild conservation, not in the wild, if you get what I mean.
This was the Big Five broken down on one evening safari trip that lasted three hours and included a stop for some good free wine. Who could complain? On the way back to the lodges, we were able to experience the sun dipping low, creating its beautiful, multicolored sunset and casting its light behind the tall mountains. I have to say, being at the Aquila Private Game Reserve really centered me again in the reality that I'm in South Africa. Sometimes it can feel like a fever dream.