I went to the riverbank for a quiet read with a bit of birdwatching thrown in. I didn’t expect a searching examination of my nerve, my character, my temperament and my bush-cred. But the Luangwa Valley in Zambia is never off duty, even if you happen to be.

I was back at Tafika Camp, the last night of the trip coming up. I was inclined to be in elegiac mood and I expected the bush all around me to share my pleasant wistful sadness. That’s not how it worked out.

I chose a comfy chair, one that had been placed on the bank for guests who fancied a gentle river-watch. There were – I measured it out later – six feet between me and the edge of the bank, which then dropped 20 feet to the beach below.

I was reading, raising my eyes every now and then to survey the glory and the majesty of the Luangwa River. And one time when I raised them I saw instead the glory and majesty of a bull elephant, previously hidden by the fence that divides the guest area from the staff area. This elephant was obviously staff.

He was 20 feet away and walking towards me in that silent bedroom-slippered walk that elephants specialise in. I felt a surge of total disbelief. This was followed by instant conversion in the manner of St Paul: total unshakable belief as the elephant walked calmly on. He was real all right. And he clearly knew I was there – elephants being no fools – but so far as he was concerned I was of no account.

What to do? The thought of running like hell was deeply attractive. But I managed not to even as the Sergeant Wilson within me asked: “Do you think that’s wise?”

The elephant then walked between me and the river, taking up the entire six feet available. I felt no temptation to reach out and touch his baggy-trousered legs as they passed in front of my eyes: eyes that could now see nothing but elephant: an entire world of grey wrinkled skin. He walked past, fed briefly from the bush he had his eyes on, but clearly found it unsatisfactory.

So he turned round, first reversing, his sky-filling back end towards me, and then walking back the way he had come. Between me and the river once more. The stars stood still, the planet stopped rotating, all Africa held its breath… and then he was striding gently onwards, walking with uninterrupted calm back to the far side of the fence, back to staff quarters, leaving me panting as if I had just beaten Usain Bolt over 100 metres.

Bart, one of our guests, witnessed all of this great encounter. “You were very calm,” he said.

“I was very still,” I corrected.

 

• I was co-leading a trip with wildlifeworldwide.com

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