A chill wind touched the back of my neck, and I shrugged deeper into the camouflage jacket bought from Bushbuck Ridge Reserve's little souvenir store. Unfortunately, we didn't expect sunny South Africa to be so hot during the day and nippy at night. Not "winter in Canada," cold but crisp.

I leaned back and stared at the stars, entranced by their beauty and the quiet night as the fire reached toward the heavens and people sat outside talking instead of hiding in their rooms. Except for those few who congregated in the lodge's spacious dining room.

***

Since we arrived five days ago, Harris had us acclimating the first two days, staying close to the lodge and our chalets, spending time by the pool, sleeping off our jetlag, and getting used to our hosts' way of doing things.

Before dawn on day three, we watched the sun rise in a blaze of golds and yellows over the watering hole from a lookout post, and it was amazing as the animals arrived one by one or in groups, dark silhouettes against the sky.

Everything was so vibrant, alive, and utterly different from anything I had ever experienced.

The monkeys messed with the other animals, and a herd of elephants arrived with their babies. Bucks and buffalo drank from the dark, reflective surface of the manmade dam while predators stalked from the shadowy savannah grass, and a few hippos looked like floating rocks with only their heads above the water.

Regretfully, we had to leave just after dawn on our way to the mountains and our second adventure.

***

Thabisho and Barry led us on a steep hike to another lookout point, leaving me half dead, but it was worth it as we stared over the austere beauty of the bushveld landscape interspersed with camel thorn trees and the snaking green band of the river cutting through it.

"That is so beautiful," Dean said beside me as the sun baked down on us, and I glanced at him.

He didn't even have the grace to sound winded and stood with his thumbs looped through the shoulder straps of his mini backpack, shoulders relaxed, a smile touching his lips, and his eyes so peaceful.

"Yes, beautiful," I echoed, but I wasn't looking at the landscape anymore.

Although we returned to camp just after four for food and a nap, we did a game drive that evening.

It demonstrated both the splendor and cruelty of the African continent in its most primal and forbidding form as we came upon a pride of lions after they brought down a large buck.

The sight was gruesome and fascinating as we watched them rip apart their prize.

Hyenas and other critters lurked in the shadows, waiting their turn. Yipping into the night, trying to tease the lions into reacting so they could steal bits and pieces of prey, but the lions kept them at bay.

The caged vehicles gave the animals a good berth, but the night vision cameras mounted on the roof gave us an excellent high view, and we continued to watch on the screens when Barry shut off the spotlights that were making the lions restless.

"This is gross. Can we leave?" Sherise asked after a while, hiding her head against my shoulder.

"The night is for predators," Thabisho, the tall, dark-skinned game warden, warned us with his unexpected and very Afrikaans accent. "The bush is always dangerous and must be respected at all times."

He took his job seriously, but when he wasn't being serious, his quirky sense of humor and dry wit slayed.

***

A small grunt and a deep rumble warned us to sit still, snapping my thoughts back to the present.

Atlas, a large but still juvenile lion who lost half his left front foot to a trap, and Toby strolled into the "boma," making their way over to Thabisho.

The round structure built with two-inch warped wooden posts with a cement floor, a fire pit, chairs in a wide circle, and no roof created a cozy meeting place while taking nothing away from the experience of being outdoors.

"Hello, Ou Grote," he greeted the large old Warthog boar with one broken tusk, a blind eye, wiry hair, leathery skin, and a scarred body.

The warden rubbed the warthog's big old head until he grunted comically as if in pain with his eyes closed in utter bliss. Compared to him, the warthogs at the watering hole looked like samples.

When the boar had enough, he strolled over to the cooler and pushed against the heavy container with his snout, nearly toppling it with ridiculous ease.

"Don't be stout," Thabisho warned, opening the lid and taking out a large plastic container filled with fresh scraps from the kitchen.

He walked over to a large stainless-steel dog bowl with "Toby" printed on the side and a stencil of a family of warthogs running with their tails comically upright and dumped the container's contents.

The boar happily plowed through it with his snout for the best bits while making a hell of a mess that would soon disappear down his gullet as if it had never existed.

***

Atlas waited patiently, sidling up to Thabisho as the warden scratched his head and ears and purred like a tractor engine grumbling to life.

On our first night at the boma, Thabisho warned us to 'keep quiet and make no sudden noises' when the animals were around.

The lion quickly grew bored and, grabbing the warden's cargo pants in a delicately toothy grip, pulled him toward the cooler.

This scenario played out every night with few variations, yet always retained its charm. The idea of human beings coexisting with such dangerous animals seemed humbling somehow.

"Are we a little hungry?" he teased and fished a large black bag out of the cooler, groaning as he lifted it.

The lion sniffed at the meat as the warden removed the plastic but didn't snatch it, acting like an oversized catdog.

"There you go, Groot Man."

The lion carefully took the meat and dragged it between his paws to the edge of the shadows, where he lay down and started tearing into it.

These two were rarely in their enclosures, leaving through the big gate in the mornings and spending their day in the bush or "veld," as the locals called it. Sometimes returning at midday to lie under the big trees near their enclosures but only visited the boma for their food at night.

The lodge, chalets, and other buildings had fences with padlocked gates to keep the rehabilitated animals from going near the guests.

Thabisho and Jeanette warned us never to approach any "tame" animals without supervision and to remember they were still wild at heart and could be unpredictable.

There were several enclosures with a variety of wildlife receiving treatment or care and larger camps near the lodges where some critters had permanent residence.

The three-mile hike inside the perimeter fence between the camps and enclosures with the wardens in the early morning or late afternoon was a treat.

***

"What's going on in that head of yours?" Dean asked, sitting down beside me with a beer.

"Just wish I knew what he said to them."

Since we arrived, I've been calmer and more at ease than ever.

I sensed him watching me again with that intense interest, and I turned my head toward him.

How can I, Mercedes Benson, star in a movie with a legend like him? Not even earlier, when we took some press photos in Jeanette's fairytale garden, did it seem real.

My eye caught on Michelle, taking "candid" footage for release on HarPaGo's social media feeds after the film's release.

That was the one thing that made it seem less ludicrous. She was one of several people constantly taping what Pagliani called "vlog" material, which would be made available along with "bloopers" and "epic" moments.

At first, I had to curb the instinct to turn away every time the camera caught on me, but I got used to it pretty quickly and sometimes even forgot they were there. People were as interested in the mechanics of moviemaking and what happened behind the scenes as they were in the actual footage.

Everyone put their best foot forward the first few days, ensuring they were always "camera ready," but Pagliani and Harris told us to "be ourselves." Let people see you "half asleep in the mornings with your hair messed up as you get ready for the day. They want the truth and the human element, something relatable."

***

Dean and the others started filming the day before, but, as promised, Jeanette, one of Bushbuck Ridge's owners and former Hollywood phenom, coached me.

She married Barry a few years ago and moved back to South Africa to settle down, but this reserve offered more than a "Bushveld Experience." They catered to filming companies who wanted a location and offered a variety of workshops for actors, producers, and screenwriters. Jeanette also coached actors one on one.

"He just calls Toby "Great One" as a tongue-in-cheek endearment, and Atlas is the "Big Man," as you would say to a young boy just becoming a man. Stout means naughty," Dean said, diverting my attention from my mind's meanderings.

"How do you know that?" I asked.

His broad shoulders stirred in a nonchalant gesture.

"My mother's South African, and she's Afrikaans speaking, but the translations are not direct. More the gist of what he said." The corners of his eyes crinkled as he grinned. "Mom introduced Harris to Barry, and Harris introduced Barry to Jeanette."

A comfortable quiet settled between us, interspersed with the crackle of flames, the soft cadence of voices and laughter, and the sounds of the bush, lending an almost hallowed atmosphere to the night.

This slice of nature brought me closer to God and his creation on some profoundly spiritual level. I let my head rest on the back of the chair and allowed that peace to flow through me.

"How did your conversation with your mother go?" Dean asked, and I glanced at him as Eva, one of the kitchen staff, approached with a steaming cup of hot coffee in an enameled yellow tin cup.

"Awesome," my sarcasm needed no interpretation.

"That well?" he asked.

Those damned dimples distracted me so badly that Eve startled me when she spoke.

"Mrs. Jeanette said she noticed you were empty-handed and thought you'd like coffee."

Her white teeth gleamed in the darkness, contrasting with burned amber skin and almost black eyes.

The casual red Bushbuck Ridge merch t-shirt, blue jeans, and sneakers were standard issue for everyone but the wardens, who wore khaki shirts with the Bushbuck Ridge logo and khaki shorts or slacks. Only the blue denim apron marked her as kitchen staff.

***

Eva's English had a different cadence, tone, and rhythm than Thabisho's.

They covertly watched one another, teasing each other mercilessly as they gravitated almost instinctively toward each other's company, but neither seemed to want to make the first move.

These South Africans were so caring and welcoming. Quickly accepting us into their lives like family. After all the negatives I had heard about this country, I was more than a little uneasy about the conditions when we arrived.

"Two sugars, a splash of milk, a touch of nutmeg, and a marshmallow. We, thick girls, can't drink bitter coffee."

South Africans were quick to make fun of themselves but didn't always appreciate others doing it. Although warm and friendly, they could be touchy at times.

They were brutally straightforward if you were their friend and incredibly loyal. Eve winked and walked off with a Mona Lisa smile edging her lips as her eyes briefly caught in Thabisho's as he approached us.

"Hey, beautiful," Thabisho teased her.

She swatted at him with a kitchen towel, which he adroitly avoided.

***

"They're going to have me bursting from my clothes," I said, shifting even lower in my chair, relaxed but not yet sleepy.

A smirk tugged at my lips, and Dean's laughter rumbled in his chest as I tasted the coffee and sighed happily.

How awesome would it be to live like this every day?

"We very much have a food culture," Thabisho said, joining us.

He was the host tonight. Barry, Ismet, the Indian warden, and some others had joined a police search for poachers on a nearby farm.

The thought scared me, but Jeanette assured us earlier that we had nothing to be worried about. The thieves would never come this close to the lodge.

"You get the yuppies, city types, that are all into these American fads to starve themselves. They eat all vegetarian, and Keto and healthy. But most of us would murder a good piece of braaivleis (you call it barbeque). There's nothing like a nice plate of pap (maize porridge) smothered with gravy or chakalaka and accompanied by a good chunk of boerewors or, as you call it, sausage.

"And we appreciate each other's unique dishes, finding ways to bring stuff together. The point is that we love food and a girl with curves. Some indigenous cultures even revere a woman with a little something around the hips."

He used his hands to show what he meant by curves as the warthog finished his food and came sniffing in our direction.

"That is mos nou genoeg, Toby. Enough, go play," Thabisho's stern tone made the pig frown, and that bushy tufted tale switched lazily at some bug.

The beast came to a reluctant standstill before waddling away to lie some ten feet from Atlas, sighing as if deeply offended.

"Where was I? Oh, ja, Jeanette's mom, Erika, says food and coffee solve everything. Tannie Lizzy, Barry's mom, says wine and pudding are better than pills. She's a cook and likes a glass or two while she's 'reinventing the wheel.' She's a great lady and raised me."

Surprised, I glanced at him.

©2013-2023 All rights reserved Cristal Sieberhagen and TypewriterPub. Available on Amazon from 23 August 2023.