A good rule of thumb for encountering cheetahs: don't run

“If you can’t find an elephant in a herd of buffalo, you should be shot as a spy,” Al whispered over my shoulder.

I was hunched into the eyepiece of my Canon, scanning the grasslands of the Imire Conservatory in Zimbabwe. We were there to make a documentary film for the kids at our church about the animals you can find in Zim. 

We were looking for Nzou. She’s an elephant who thinks she’s a buffalo because she is their queen. 14 males have challenged her to lead the herd, and 14 males have become buzzard food. She’s been with the buffalo since she was a baby and now prefers them to other elephants. 

“Another terrible day in Africa,” Al said as he lounged back in his seat. We were perched on a safari jeep. I’ve known Al for 5 days. He’s like a character from an adventure novel that climbed out of the pages and refuses to go back in because the world out here is so much more beautiful — because it’s alive. He’s told us stories of leading big game hunting expeditions and encounters with everything from lions to black mambas to UCLA college students.

Al is a missionary partner with our church. He runs a camp in Zimbabwe teaching kids wilderness survival skills and showing them how God filled the world with beauty, danger, a little fun, and a lot of love.

The first night in Zim, he showed us to our room in his house and said:

“Shake your shoes off in the morning, just in case. We haven’t had a big problem, but shake your shoes.”

“Why?“ I asked.

“Scorpions. They’ll ruin your day. Not your week.“

It’s August, late winter on the south side of the world. The cool air of early spring pushes the low clouds at the same speed it ruffles the chest-high straw-colored grass. The air smells like dirt. It’s wild, alive, free. 

I was filming a herd of buffalo on the opposite ridge, beyond a msasa grove. No elephant. 

“That is the herd of losers,“ our guide said.

“The what?” I asked. 

“The buffalo that no one wants to mate with get kicked out of the herd,“ Al said.

“So they’re like Kentucky fans.“ 

“I’m sorry?“ 

“Nothing.“ 

Al jumped out of the vehicle. 

“Can he do that?“ I asked. 

The guide shrugged.

Al picked something up off the ground. “Anybody want some chocolate-covered peanuts?“ 

He held up what I now know is buffalo poop and pretended to eat it. Or maybe he really did. This is the same man who described himself as an expert in scatology — the study of animal droppings. Perhaps he wanted to know everything about his subject. A scholar.

I could see the msasas in front of us straining, shaking, parting and then I saw her: Nzou. 

I’m convinced that if she were closer, the ground would shake with her steps. Her gray skin was dark and rigid. One of her tusks broke off in a fight, and the other is stained brown. Her ears, the size of car doors, flapped as she walked. All around her was her herd of puny buffalo, trotting along behind their queen, stirring up dust in the afternoon sun. 

I was told we’d get to meet an elephant face-to-face. But not Nzou. She’d kill us. Don’t mess with a queen. 

We watched Nzou for a quarter of an hour. She was curious about my camera, so the guide drove us over the ridge.

“We’re going to meet Mark!“ said Al as the frame of the truck creaked, the lumpy dirt road jostling the vehicle. Al’s face lit up like a sweet-toothed child who was given a lifetime supply of chocolate-covered peanuts. 

We parked the vehicle off the dirt road. Al and the guide hopped out. 

“Are there lions here?“ I asked, staying in my seat. 

“They’re fenced in,“ the guide said. 

I hopped onto the ground. 

“But the cheetahs aren’t,“ Al said. 

“Oh.” 

“A good rule of thumb: don’t run,“ he said, “Stand your ground.” He followed the guide up the road. I ran after them.

Ahead, Al was squatting, looking at the dirt. 

“Look here,“ he pointed at the outline of a circle on the ground that looked like someone had stamped down a Gatorade bucket. “Elephant track,“ he smiled.

We found Mark walking with a female elephant that, next to him, looked like a horse. He lumbered along the dusty road, his steps gently pounding the dirt. Elephants are the kindest animals that could kill you in seconds.

Al always had a story, a joke, or a fact about how zebras’ feet have a little pump that sends blood up their legs. Here, Al had his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, watching the elephants as he walked beside them, his eyes full and his mind lost.

They gave Mark some feed so we could stop and meet him. The guide motioned for me and handed me some of the little cubes. 

Mark was towering, his trunk swaying back and forth. His black, deep eyes watched us, watching me, his long eyelashes looked like wiry black yarn. His tusks were hooked together in front of his trunk, the white ivory scuffed black. 

He politely reached out his trunk and turned it up. I put the feed in it like I hand my daughter graham crackers. He chucked it into his mouth. 

Oh hi Mark.

“Feel his tusk,“ Al said. 

I touched it with one finger, then rubbed it with my whole hand. It was cold on my palm, smooth with streaks and chips.

I’m sure that, in his mind, Mark delicately turned his head to reach for more cubes. I was shoved aside like I leaf and nearly fell on my butt.

When Al got a turn, he talked to Mark like an old friend who’d invited him to lunch. Maybe they don’t see each other often, but they always pick up where they left off. 

“I could stand here all day,“ Al said. 

When I stood next to Mark, I felt small. But not the kind of small like standing beneath a sky of stars where the night feels like a dome over you and your life feels so irrelevant. Out here in Zim, I felt my life was small, and it mattered, I felt how wild this world is, I felt a beauty that doesn’t ask you anything beyond to be amazed by it and to tell a friend about it later. 

“To think God made all of this for your enjoyment,“ Al said. 

The sun set in its way in Africa: foolish to capture with words or lenses. A cold breeze eased the clouds and breathed on my neck. A few zebras ambled through a field up the hill. And there was Mark, plodding along to find some baobab trees. 

“If you can’t make a fun video out of that, you should be shot as a spy,“ Al said.