Bundu bashing in the bushveld

My father always said that the best place to learn how to drive was in the African bush. The peaceful disposition of the bush is far more conducive to mastering the intricate business of clutch control than the bustling metropolis of Johannesburg. Learning how to come to a graceful standstill, to allow for a tortoise to labor its way across the road, is easier than screeching to a halt behind a taxi driver who has just spotted a stranded commuter on the sidewalk. The sounds of hyenas waking at dusk to cackle their eerie non-sequiturs into the twilight is far easier on the ears than the hooting, cussing & roaring anthems of Johannesburg's sprawling road networks. Even the musky smell of fresh buffalo droppings wafting through my window are better than the noxious fumes spewing from the exhausts of the trucks and busses in the city sanctum. Unlike the city, time is a nonentity in the African bush. The pace here is set by the rising and setting of Jua the sun, the military-like regimes of the siafu ant brigades and the majestic migrations of the wildebeest. And then again, in the bush, there is no pace at all. Time exists and then it disappears again. It speeds up with a frenetic energy when it’s time for a kill or a bushfire and then it slows down. Sometimes it even stands still. Nothing is ephemeral in the African bush. During one memorable driving lesson, I came face to face with a beautiful albeit terrifying elephant bull. While looking into his unblinking black eyes, I experienced one of these timeless moments. We observed each other for what seemed like an eternity. And then, with the perfectly executed magical precision of the bush, time sped up. Instinctively I knew we were in trouble. His expression betrayed nothing but his intention to charge at this little Suzuki, which had dared to disturb his midafternoon meander through his favourite Marula thicket. The agitated pachyderm shook his huge leathery ears; he was getting ready to charge! My father screamed at me to put the car into reverse. I did. I panicked. I stalled. My heart was beating a violent tattoo against my breast. I finally managed to turn on the ignition. Fluke. I somehow managed to balance the clutch/accelerator equation and reversed, away from the beautiful, bristling beast. And then, he stopped, gave us one more look of portent forewarning and disappeared into the trees. The bush returned to its enduring demeanor and I’ve never had a problem with reversing or clutch control since.