The Elephant is in the Eye of the Beholder

This story evolved from the course when asked to write about a frightening personal experience.

Brain-storming mapping (which I find really useful), notes, morning walks and then writing on the laptop.

14 strangers driving in Africa together for 17 days. What could possibly go wrong?

I was lucky—this was my second time on safari in Africa. I had, however, been slightly cynical about this trip for different reasons—but not for the one that presented itself on Day 4.

We were a convoy of three converted pickup trucks—four families, fourteen people in total—road-tripping through South Africa and Mozambique. None of the families had met before, making it feel like a social experiment of sorts—but on a holiday you’re paying good money for. That felt like a risky gamble.

My initial jitters stemmed from the unknowns about the other families.
What if they were weird? Or boring?
Or worse—what if none of them drank wine?
Even more unsettling—what if we were the weirdos? Or I completely lost my shxt?
My husband’s silence at these last two concerns suggested they were rhetorical.

By Day 4, those trivial worries vanished. A real fear had taken their place: a pissed-off elephant. And he was big. I mean Jurassic-big.

We had stopped to watch a long train of elephants—four dozen or so—ambling parallel to us before crossing just ahead. Engines off, we sat at a safe distance, watching. It really was spectacular. It is true—they are majestic creatures. They moved forward with steady intent, with purpose and a clear destination in mind. “Where were they going?” I wondered. I was intrigued by their built-in north star—something I wholly lack— I can get lost in my own garage.

Among the line-up were some impossibly cute baby elephants. The mums were carefully positioned between their little ones, with the odd dad making an appearance—much like drop-off time at the school gates—the occasional dad, minus the early-morning frenzy of mums getting kids to school.

One of the adult elephants suddenly noticed us. And she wasn’t thrilled. With an angry toss of her head and a loud snort—akin to a mum who’s just lost a prime parking spot—she made her irritation clear.

The closest vehicle in our convoy to the crossing was the Girl Power car. That morning, we’d mixed up formations, and this one held all the female offspring, with one of our female travel companions driving. Concerned by the elephant’s reaction, she turned on the engine to reverse slightly. Unfortunately, there was a bush behind her. She reversed into it.

Bad move.

The noise and motion were perceived as a threat. At that precise moment, the last elephant in the line—a behemoth we hadn’t even noticed—stepped into the crossing. He was enormous. The previous Jumbo, that had expressed annoyance, paled to a short-ass cousin from New Jersey. The big city New Yorker turned his colossal head toward us, ears flaring, snorting, raising a massive front leg in protest.

Then I saw it.

The most terrifying moment of the experience, possibly of my life: his eye—locked onto the Girl Power vehicle.

There are many romantic anecdotes about an elephant’s eye being a window to its gentle, majestic soul, leaving a lasting impression on those lucky enough to meet their gaze. Not here. Not this time. This was not romantic. This was the movie moment—except it felt paralyzingly real—when a wild-eyed, armed shooter jumps out, pupils dilated, sweaty, strung out, taking aim.

Mere seconds passed between that locked gaze and a split decision.

He decided we weren’t a big enough threat. He didn’t pull the trigger. The elephant turned back to the path and continued on his way. His anger reigned in, the Dad in the statement SUV cursed under his breath then cruised off.

The relief in our vehicle—three mums and one dad—was palpable. Meanwhile, in the third car (all dads and my eleven-year-old son), the reaction was starkly different: all calm, as if nothing had happened. “It was fine, really, wasn’t it?”—cue nonchalant nodding, a bit of ball scratching, a yawn-stretch combo.

The Girl Power car was unusually quiet, the realization sinking in that something dangerous had just nearly gone down. Moments earlier, the girls had been giggling and recording the crossing. The video cuts out just as the Big Guy enters the path, silence falling—except for one teenage voice: “You’re probably better off staying still.”

I imagined this video making the rounds online, complete with a Daily Mail headline: “Tragic final words before Italian teenage tourists get trumpled by raging elephant.” The spelling mistake is intentional here for authenticity—the DM is not real journalism after all, is it?

That evening, over dinner—and yes, my travel companions did drink wine—the story was recounted with much animation and debate, each person viewing it through their own lens. The social experiment test group itself was a lively bunch of lab mice. I needn’t have worried about teetotalers on the trip. One of our female co-travelers cracked open a beer at 10 a.m. on Day 1, instantly making me feel gleefully virtuous—while earning her hero status in my mind.

This introduces Lili. She didn’t just bring beers; she brought style—and ice coolers. Not one, but two, always color-coordinated with her daily outfits. Her trolley was the smallest in the group, yet she somehow packed the most effortlessly cool wardrobe for every day. That tiny trolley also went home nearly empty—she gave most of her gear away to people she took the time to speak to—like the cleaning ladies at the house we stayed in at Vilanculos. For those who understand Spanish or Italian—please feel free to snigger inanely at that name- as that’s exactly what we did.

Lili and I became the group’s soul sisters. She’s larger than life, with the kindest, deepest soul and a smile the size of Africa. The thing about Lili and me—she’s Brazilian, I’m British, and our common language is Italian. Conversations could have been a frustrating mix of hit-and-miss understanding—but they weren’t. They were glorious. We just got each other.

As we get older, I think it can become less common for women to find new kinship or sisterhood. By the time we reach our 40s and 50s, we usually—or hopefully—have found our core people. I know I would have been royally screwed over the years, especially approaching midlife, without my close tribe of women. But I think we sometimes lose the openness we had in our youth to embrace new, deep friendships. Are we too scared? Too time-poor? Too self-absorbed? Too consumed with family or work? Unwilling to invest the energy? Or simply afraid to take the risk?

When I think back to South Africa and Mozambique, the first image that comes to mind is Lili and me in the back of the car, laughing uncontrollably—the kind of laughter that feels childlike and free. Or Lili hooting as a small monkey chased her. Or just enjoying the soft lull of her Brazilian Portuguese, her husband Riki always addressed as “Hiki!” with that smooth H sound.

Lili has a natural warmth with people—always a word, always a hello. Speaking the language helped in Mozambique, but people were drawn to her anyway. Maybe it was her energy. Or maybe it was the fact that, at times, she bears a striking resemblance to Michelle Obama. By the end of the trip, as we cruised through the dusty suburbs of Mozambique with the windows down, she had nailed the perfect politician wave—the enigmatic smile was already hers.

There are also no layers to Lili—it took time for the rest of us to shed ours on this trip—we are middle-aged, middle-class Italians, after all. Lili, on the flip side, unapologetically shows up as her net self each day. It was refreshing to spend time with her. In this midlife phase, I salute that bold honesty. It’s not an “I don’t give a fxxk” statement of being, but an “I only give a fxxk about what really matters.”

We all fell a little bit in love with Lili on this trip—her approach to life and family is much like her dancing: zesty and ‘all in.’ And her rather marvellous ability to shake that booty? Now that is truly Lili-tonic!"

All in all, the social experiment was a massive success. We had a brilliant time—the group gelled, and real friendships took root. When we landed back at Malpensa on Day 17, there were big hugs, genuine tears, and that bittersweet feeling of something pretty special coming to an end.

As for the near-miss with the elephant? Easily the most dramatic wildlife encounter of the trip. But the real alchemy wasn’t in the animals we saw or the many kilometres we covered—it was in the human connections we made.

Our little group of lab mice didn’t just survive—we thrived.