August 2004
The late Rodney Kapelus, a former shareholder of Olifants, was one of the more familiar and regular intra-African migrants to the reserve. Each year he eagerly anticipated his winter migration up from the rich feeding grounds of Plettenberg Bay’s Keurbooms River estuary to the banks of the Olifants River. Here he would soak up sun-drenched days relaxing in the tranquillity, while recharging his batteries and putting on enough condition for the return flight a few months later.
This season, however, was a little different, and not as peaceful as he’d hoped. Rodney found he had to share his space with millions of red-billed queleas. Each evening, for over a month, these incredible little birds roosted in the larger riverine trees in front of the lodges on Olifants. They would concentrate in such numbers and in such a small area that in the morning the trees and the area underneath their crowns would be blanketed in white from their droppings. At times, the smell became overpowering and quite impossible to live with. It was a bit like having the aroma of an intensive poultry farm in your back garden, and that wasn’t the only problem. Their collective chirping would coagulate into a din that could drive the most enthusiastic twitcher to enlist the services of those inexplicably trigger-happy Italian bird hunters on the opening day of their ‘If it flies, it dies’ season. This cacophony turned out to be the least of Rodney’s worries, however, as something far more surreal was to make this year’s migration even more memorable and besides, the queleas were considerately concentrating their roosting activities at the lodge next door.
Many of you may have read Herman Charles Bosman’s classic ‘In the Withaak’s Shade’, which takes place in the old Western Transvaal area, on the edge of the Kalahari Desert. This area has given rise to some of the most interesting characters of yore, notably J Barnard or ‘Bvekenya’ as he was better known, whose exploits as a hunter and adventurer are legendary, and, of course, Groot Marico’s most famous storyteller, Oom Schalk Lourens.
One day, Oom Schalk was out looking for some strayed cattle. At about midday it occurred to him that they might be under the withaak trees, because of the softness of the grass. And since cattle were large enough to be seen from a recumbent position, he lay on his back under a tree, with his hat tilted over his face, from where he noticed that the tip of his boot looked just like Abjaterskop, a familiar peak in the local mountain range. His reverie was interrupted by the appearance of a strange spotted cloud on top of the mountain, which turned out to belong to a leopard sniffing his boots. Paralysed with terror, Oom Schalk was unable to stop the leopard from progressing embarrassingly to his trousers, which were old and torn. He decided that the next time he lay under the withaak tree looking for cattle, he would wear his best black ‘Nagmaal’ hat …
Back on Olifants, on a similar quiet lazy afternoon, Rodney also felt like a snooze and lay down, not on the grass as Oom Schalk did, but in a reclining deck chair on the edge of his deck. Drenched in dappled shade from a large false marula tree, this area of the deck was effectively shielded from the midday sun. Shaded and relatively cool, it must have produced the same effect on Rodney as the withaak did when Oom Schalk lay in its shade. So, understandably, it wasn’t too long before he too dozed off.
It didn’t seem as if he had been asleep more than a few moments when he was woken by an ever-so-gentle, but insistent, tugging on his foot. Lifting his head up just enough to see what or who had the audacity to disturb his siesta, Rodney found himself looking straight into what appeared to be the side of a moving grey mountain.
As he emerged from his doze and began to focus, the rumpled forehead of a large elephant bull loomed in front of him. The curious pachyderm was nudging and sniffing at his foot with the tip of his trunk!
Needless to say, once the reality that this was no dream dawned on him, he spoke rather firmly to the elephant. Apparently the expletives he used to articulate his feelings had the desired effect. The startled jumbo, unaccustomed to such abusive language, moved quickly away.
Confirmation of the position of the elephant in relation to the deck chair was plain to see by the tracks it left behind in the soft sand in front of the deck. According to the spoor, it was clear the elephant had spent quite some time milling about, before actually reaching out to touch Rodney’s foot with its trunk.
What was it that prompted this tactile curiosity from the elephant? Could he determine Rodney was asleep, or was he trying to find out if he was alive? Maybe Rodney’s feet smelt interesting, or he’d stepped in something the elephant liked. Who knows?
I remain convinced, however, that while Rodney’s experience shares a few common threads with Oom Schalk’s tale, it is less likely to be an exaggerated account; it is too new, too recent. There is a certain licence given to exaggeration that legends allow and thrive on, but they need the key ingredient of time. The more time that passes, the more imaginative and colourfully embellished the recollection becomes. More important to the establishment of the truth of this tale, though, is that we know Rodney Kapelus, as opposed to Oom Schalk, was not partial to the midday consumption of witblits.