THE LEOPARD OF LESHIBA
It’s fun to camp alone — until you feel like food
LIKE a character in a Herman Charles Bosman story, I was once alone in camp with a leopard. I was at Hamasha Camp at Leshiba Wilderness, far, far away in the wild heights of the Soutpansberg mountains in northern Limpopo. “You gonna be okay alone?” asked the owners. “Sure,” I told them. I’m a bush gal, I know some tree names in Latin and I’ve shot beer cans out of dry river beds.
I opened a bottle of wine and sat on the steps of the main rondavel for a sunset view of the gorge and sideways cliffs covered in green-and-yellow lichen. Then I opened the visitors’ book. “Awesome leopard sighting,” said the last entry, dated the day before. They saw a leopard? A little surge of adrenaline shot through my veins. Right here? Yesterday.
It’s only impalas, I said sternly to myself when I heard puffing and snorting. Still, it was getting dark so I went inside and poured another glass of wine, closed all the windows and doors, put on all the lights and decided to rather cook inside. The Soutpansberg does have a very high concentration of leopards.
I made a dreary pasta and then, emboldened by the wine, opened the door and went a short way outside for a peek at the night skies. I was staring at Orion when I hear the leopard growl in the gorge — an unmistakably primal feline rumble that cut right through the night. I dropped my glass of wine and fled indoors, panting like a fat, suburban Spaniel.
I had more wine, in a fresh glass. I checked all the windows again and tried to read a magazine to distract myself but every page I turned showed leopards: leopards licking their bloodied lips, leopards stalking their prey, leopards chewing on a haunch of flesh …. My imagination took flight. Wild flight. I could hear the leopard sniffing at the rondavel door. I could picture it crushing my little pasta pot with
I heard snuffles, claws against the door
one crunch of its mighty jaw. I drank wine, much more wine.
Oh it was a difficult night. I heard snuffles and grunts, claws against the door. I swear the window pane momentarily misted up with leopard breath. I lay still and tried not to breathe, which is a hard position to hold for a night. As the wine wore off, my mouth got dry, but I dared not move lest the leopard had slipped cunningly in and was hiding in the shower or the bath.
“Oh Lord I made it.” I let out a long, relieved groan at first light. I was frozen rigid with cold and fear. I massaged the pins and needles out of my extremities and decided to leave at once.
“You did it, girl,” I said weakly to myself and gathered my bags and camera and headed for the car, which was parked next to an acacia tree. I opened the passenger door and my heart stopped.
Lying on the passenger seat was a leopard.
I dimly recall the wild gorge of Hamasha echoing back my screams as I flinched in anticipation of the first bite to my jugular. Yiaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!! I was still hanging on to my camera bag when I opened my eyes. And the leopard was still lying there, somewhat limply in fact. I looked again and — I hate to admit it — but the leopard was actually my Marianne Fassler leopard-print jersey, which I’d casually left on the car seat the afternoon before.
I took some time to regain my composure and I was still rather wide eyed when I went to say farewell to the good owners before I headed, perhaps a little hastily, back to Joburg.
“All cool at Hamasha Camp on your own last night?” they asked.
“Wish I could stay another night,” I replied, tossing the leopard print jersey nonchalantly over my shoulder. — © Bridget Hilton-Barber