We took the bridge over the River Khwai. A phalanx of firewood rattled in the back of the beat-up Land Rover. Sardined beside it, my siblings nattered and quibbled.<\/p>\n
It was 2012 and we were a full-house family \u2013 two adults, three children \u2013 eight weeks and two breakdowns into a self-drive safari sabbatical. Travelling across Botswana in such a manner had been a saga of nature at its most splendidly chaotic.<\/p>\n
When we broke down, it was beside a crotchety buffalo bull. No sooner had we lit the braai than a pack of wild dogs streaked through camp.<\/p>\n
Signs were sparing, fences fictional and, freshly turned 10 years old, with the Boys\u2019 Own writings of naturalist-adventurers\u00a0Gerald Durrell\u00a0and Lawrence Anthony running bright in my mind, I relished every second.<\/p>\n
On this particular evening, the November skies were alight \u2013 burnt orange, then plum as a hippo\u2019s bum. We reached our camp and, just like that, it was dark. In the bush, night falls fast.<\/p>\n
I made my way down a beaten-earth track to the tiny ablutions block, that night\u2019s risotto rumbling inside.<\/p>\n
As I re-emerged, I fumbled for my torch as my eyes readjusted to the darkness, and stepped out into the night.<\/p>\n
\u201cWROUAAARGH!\u201d<\/p>\n
The gurning faces of my mother and younger sister launched at me from behind a leadwood tree. I yelped in alarm, springing back into the light of the toilet block.<\/p>\n
\u201cVery funny.\u201d I tried to sound cross as they fell about in laughter. \u201cAnd anyway, that\u2019s not what leopards sound like.\u201d<\/p>\n
As we walked the 40m or so back to the campsite, I ambled behind the others, treading quietly. I flicked my torch into the trees, searching for bushbabies.<\/p>\n
The stars shimmered like scales through the sparse canopy. Ahead, the trees parted and the bush buzz faded, replaced by the calm crackle of the campfire. The leaping flames sent whirligig shadows around the clearing.<\/p>\n
I stopped. What was that? The faintest sound, a musky whiff on the breeze, a shadow? I turned.<\/p>\n
Crouched, stalking, barely 3m from me, was a leopard. Its gold-green eyes locked on mine.<\/p>\n
I wish I\u2019d said something cool. Isn\u2019t that always the case? Treppenwitz, the Germans call it \u2013 staircase wit. Instead, my voice came out as a prepubescent squeak.<\/p>\n
\u201cI think there\u2019s something behind me.\u201d My brother\u2019s torch hit it square. Everything froze for an instant.<\/p>\n
Then the cat melted into the treeline shadows and I regained my faculties. The next five minutes are blotted to a blur in my memory.<\/p>\n
But I doubt that, in the moment, any of us appreciated the beautiful irony of the leopard-by-the-loo prank becoming reality. Quick as a flash, my brother and I were thrown into the ground tent.<\/p>\n
My sister, a wee, bite-sized meal, flew into the two-person tent on the Land Rover\u2019s roof, followed closely by my mother, crowbar in hand.<\/p>\n
The leopard circled, silent, in the treeline, under the car. My father stood watch, a silhouetted sentry by the fire with a spade and a bottle of wine.<\/p>\n
Minutes stretched into hours until finally, around midnight, the big cat stopped coming back. At that tender age, possessing the self-confidence of a hapless hedgehog, I was targeted by many animals \u2013 frisked and mugged by baboons, chased in circles by vervet monkeys and sent hiding by hyenas.<\/p>\n
But after that night I had a new nickname: \u2018leopard fodder\u2019. Nature always has the last laugh<\/p>\n