Woman vs the Wild

It started at 6am, blazing through the South African bush on the back of a growling quad bike.

The sun, so famous for that golden, caressing warmth, began to flood the land that lay before me. The faint call of a Fish Eagle and the coo of the Cape Turtle Dove reached my ears as we flew through the long, thick grass. Giraffes and warthogs darted before us, rudely awakened from their slumber by our dawn adrenalin rush, so lusted after by our adventurous hearts.

I gripped his torso tightly, his light blonde hair gently blowing around the pale face of my skin, previously only acquainted with the New Zealand sun. How the hell did I end up here? I’d only known him for week. It was official. I was bitten by the Khaki Fever bug, and I had been bitten hard.

Needing to quench my thirst to explore, I had opted for a semester abroad in South Africa’s capital city of Pretoria. A chance meeting at a bar with a tanned and rugged man visiting from ‘the bush’, I stood no chance. I unexpectedly fell in love. Suddenly, I swapped full pavements of people and being able to hear my neighbors argue for open plains that stretched on a never ending horizon, and Africa’s Big 5 as my new neighbors.

Visiting the full stop sized town of Hoedspruit every other week to see him, I began to develop a deep longing for the real life version of the National Geographic images.

The true wilderness of South Africa cannot be completely and adequately described in words or in the clichés of safari marketing material.

The essence of this place is in feeling a lion’s roar literally rattling your rib cages, or walking through thick jungle, believing you are all alone, and trying to control your heightened heartbeat after suddenly hearing an elephant fart.
It is lifting your nose to smell the fresh rhino dung floating in the air, and quickly searching for a high tree to climb should he come near.
It is opening your mouth and tasting the succulently sweet and freshly brewed Marula beer, after the fruits have fallen from the trees and picked up and mixed with water by the locals, fermenting for a few days.
It is walking into a seemingly deserted area for a quick pee, and meeting eyes with a sunken cheetah through a shrub as you button up your well worn denim shorts.

It is taking your city-girl high heels off and stepping into thick red dust, kicking up a cloud behind you as you walk proudly in the footsteps of your human ancestors. It is feeling in your bones that you are home.

I am.