Dust, Ticks, and a Rhino Named Consequence

What happens when a conservation scientist tries to unwind in the bush and the bush says: not today, China.

A Stampede in the Moonlight

It started the way most bad bush plans do—with too much field experience and not enough sense.

I was living in South Africa, researching large mammals, clocking hours in the veld, and spending more time with warthogs than with people. So when I suggested we go cowboy camping—no tents, just sleeping bags on the dirt under a full moon—my mates Gregor and Pieter were game.

We weren’t tourists. We were scientists. Or at least thought we were. I’d already had my fair share of veld run-ins and near-death encounters, so I thought: what’s one more?

Before bedding down, we decided to go look for nocturnal creatures—because obviously, the night wasn’t wild enough. Pieter grabbed the torch and we wandered into the bush, just the three of us and a head full of bravado.

That’s when we saw them—two massive eyes reflecting back. Far apart. Unblinking.

We froze.

Then the ground started to tremble.

What happened next was not majestic. It was chaotic kak.

A stampede of Cape buffalo came tearing through the bush like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse had just dropped into the Northern Cape. For the uninitiated: Cape buffalo don’t do moods—they do vendettas.

We didn’t “move.” We bolted.

Cape buffalo (Syncerus caffer): proof that grass-eaters can have anger issues.

The Warthog Hole and the Coward Tree

Gregor sprinted for the only sad little acacia in sight and shimmied up like a man possessed. I reached it half a second later, just in time to see his takkies dangling in my face. He wasn’t coming down. No space for me. Cheers, mate.

I veered off, lungs burning, not entirely sure I wasn’t about to be flattened.

Pieter, meanwhile, was mid-sprint when the ground disappeared.

He hit a warthog hole full force—didn’t see it, didn’t slow down, just vanished. One second he was running, the next he was diagonal, half-submerged, arms the only thing keeping him from going full mole.

His shoulders took the hit. Hard. Wedged at just the right angle to stop the fall—and guarantee pain later.

If there was a warthog home that night, it would’ve needed therapy.

The mastermind behind Pieter’s sudden disappearance, a common warthog (Phacochoerus africanus). No apology. Just a snort and a strut. (Photo by K. Africanis)

The buffalo roared past. Dust everywhere. We regrouped, hacking and heaving, wide-eyed like three rookies instead of field veterans.

No one spoke.

We didn’t have to.

Bright Moon, Bad Onions, and Bloody Ticks

We eventually laid down under a full moon so bright it felt like someone had parked a bakkie with the brights on. Sleep was a joke. We smelled like bush sweat and burnt onions—Gregor’s idea of “dinner.” Half raw, half charred. Just vibes.

What I didn’t know was that five tiny ticks had crawled into my sleeping bag and decided to make camp on my backside. I found them five days later, after I’d already contracted Mediterranean spotted tick fever—yet another exciting addition to my collection of fieldborne misfortunes.

The vervet monkeys were screaming across the valley. I was itchy, tired, and deeply questioning every choice that had led me to this point. Meanwhile, they raided the neighboring camp like it was a buffet. We laughed. Of course we laughed.

Vervet monkey (Chlorocebus pygerythrus), Early morning raider, professional snack thief, and full-time ecosystem comedian. (Photo by K. Africanis)

White Rhinos and Pieter’s Second Bad Idea

The next day, eyes gritty, heads thumping, we stumbled to a nearby watering hole. It was peaceful—lilies blooming, dragonflies buzzing, dust finally settling.

And then: white rhinos.

Massive, magnificent, mildly unimpressed with our existence.

I kept my distance. I knew better.

Pieter, still riding his luck, decided to get closer. Too close. Creeping like some discount Steve Irwin, camera out, whispering like he was narrating his own wildlife documentary.

The rhino snorted. Pivoted.

Bluff charge.

Dust. Chaos. Pieter’s face shifting from smug to “maak klaar” (get ready) in 0.3 seconds. It pulled off just short of impact. Pieter nearly soiled himself. I stayed still. Gregor laughed so hard he nearly fell over.

We called it a day after that.

Still laughing? Good. Now read what’s not funny. My firsthand account of rhino poaching, extinction economics, and what we’re losing faster than we can write it down. → Read the full story

Why It’s Funny—And Why It Isn’t

Look—we laughed about it. We still do.

But here’s the thing: we weren’t thrill-seekers. We were conservationists. Researchers. People who knew the bush and respected it.

And we still nearly got flattened, twice, in 24 hours.

Because the bush doesn’t give a damn about your degrees. It doesn’t care if you’ve darted rhinos or done radio interviews about biodiversity loss. If you mess around—it will teach you a lesson.

That’s why I tell this story.

Not just because it’s funny.

But because it only works as a story if those buffalo are still running.

If those rhinos are still bluff charging.

If that chaos, that beauty, that wildness still exists.

And if we don’t fight for it?

Then all we’ll be left with are stories.

No bush. No dust. No warthog holes. Just a memory of what it was like to live in a world that still had consequences.