Carol’s Column

Strange things happen in the dark

WHAT could be nicer than spending the long weekend in a tent in the Kruger Park?

An air-conditioned tent with holes in the roof through which the sickle moon shines bright and white. And raindrops keep falling on your head.

The smell of woodsmoke and wors wafts over the warm spring night. And mingles with the blocked septic tank.

In the distance, a great, full-throated black-maned lion roars in competition with Gé Korsten who is doing his thing on the radio turned up full-blast in our neighbour's tent.

I hear a hyena laughing in the distance. Wrong, it's the Tannie next door, the one in sponge-rollers and a diaphanous shocking pink nightie.

"This is the life," says my spouse, sipping an iced beer and reclining on the only collapsible lounging chair.

Not that I can see much of life for the smoke that is blowing in my face as I battle with the campfire and boerwors that has turned to stone.

The kids are ecstatic. "We don't have to bath for three days."

There's nothing quite like being in the bush. Away from the distressing hustle and bustle of the concrete jungle, hot running water in clean baths, toilets that flush immediately, and soft, comfortable beds.

The veld has its own distinct quiet charm. Thorn bushes that spike you in unexpected, outstanding places, not to mention 3 000 other campers who are sharing your little spot.

But best of all are the animals.

□ □ □

The first night was uneventful.

I crawled into my special duck-down sleeping bag guaranteed to keep you warm on the slopes of Mount Kilimanjaro.

That special Kruger Park dust had permeated every feather, not that it mattered. I couldn't sleep anyway.

Not that I was scared of the animals, you understand. We'd placed a bucket of water at the entrance of the tent in case of elephants.

At midnight there was silence other than the gentle sounds of the Lazar family in slumber.

Then, through the canvas, I heard the sounds of heavy breathing. I knew it couldn't be my husband, he was snoring beside me.

My God, it's a hyena, or worse, a lion.

If I go to investigate, they'll find my pair of toes lying outside, with the rest of me digesting inside some hungry carnivore's belly.

The breathing increased. I shook my husband frantically. He slumbered on.

Suddenly, there was a horrendous sound at the entrance of the tent.

"Wake up, wake up," I yelled. "It's a lion or an elephant, he's knocked over the pail."

There was instant activity in the Lazar tent. Torches flashed and my children disappeared under the flaps screaming with all their might. Which is great.

As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I saw indeed, it was an animal of sorts.

The dripping-wet Tannie from next door had stumbled into the wrong tent and landed in our bucket.

You couldn't really blame her — there was a definite similarity to the sound of our spouses' snoring.

The next three days were blissful. Our Kombi broke down among a herd of mating elephants.

We saw every conceivable animal from a lithe cheetah to a hyena with tiny chocolate-brown cubs. There were small steenboks and duikers, great inyala, and a baboon that distinctly resembled a close member of my husband's family.

And it didn't matter that the shops in the camp were never open when we were in camp, that a soaring, wonderful fish eagle dropped a plop upon my head.

We watched a kill through 54 other cars. By the time we'd reached the front row, only the bones were left — even the vultures had given-up.

One evening we arrived back at camp to find our tent had collapsed due to a major structural fault in the expensive French frame. No matter, it's fun sleeping six in a Kombi, especially when three of those six are over 1,8m tall.

That was the same night that it poured with rain and outside a hyena prowled round deciding we looked good enough to eat.

And yet, it was sad packing up, leaving the bush and the scrub and the great outdoors.

"It's so different, isn't it?" said my husband as we neared the Numbi gate.

And were flagged down by a traffic officer lurking behind a bush, speed-trap and all.

"You're doing two kilometres over the limit," he said, "I'll let you off this time — but you'd better watch it, hey!"

■