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Underrated Encounters: The Moments We Almost Miss
- Elanie Snyman
- Apr 11
- 4 min read
It never really starts with the moment you think it will.
Not in the bush.
It always starts slower. Quieter. Almost ordinary.
And I have realised that some of the most meaningful encounters I have had were not the ones I was looking for, but the ones I almost overlooked.
Here are some of the most meaningful encounters I have had, that might not always mean alot, but changed something within me.
The Elephant That Wasn’t the Main Event
A particular moment in January when we were in the south of Kruger
I remember sitting with an elephant and feeling that familiar calm settle in.
It was one of those sightings where everything slows down in the best way. My camera was down. My shoulders were relaxed. I was not trying to capture anything specific, I have already captured a few shots. So, I was just watching.
The elephant moved slowly through the grass, tearing at tufts, shifting its weight, flicking its ears every now and then like it was having its own quiet conversation with the environment.
At first, it felt simple. Almost uneventful. Then something shifted.
Not in the elephant, but in me.
That subtle feeling you get before you even understand why you feel it. The air changed slightly. The energy tightened just a little. And then we found out why. Maybe it was because cars were starting to pile up... About 100 meters away, lions were moving through the bush and then crossed the road.
Suddenly, everything I thought I was watching changed meaning. The elephant was not “the sighting.” It was part of something much bigger that I had been sitting inside without even realising.
What stayed with me was not the lions.
It was the realisation that I had been part of a story I did not even know was unfolding yet.
Cameras Down, Eyes Open and a easy-to-miss moment
A behaviour from zoology textbooks that became a moment to witness
Later that day, I found myself watching a herd of impala.
Nothing about it demanded attention. If anything, it was the kind of sighting most people would glance at and move past.
But I stayed.
For once, I did not reach for my camera. I just watched.
At first, nothing really happened. Just grazing. Small shifts in position. The quiet rhythm of animals that are always alert, even when they look relaxed.
Then I saw a male move closer to a female.
He paused. Completely still. Focused.
And then came the flehmen response.
That strange, almost comical grimace. Lip curled, head lifted slightly. Something so small and so easy to miss if you were not paying attention.
But in that moment, it felt anything but small.
It was communication. Instinct. Chemistry. A language happening constantly in the background of the bush that I usually only catch in fragments or even just read about in my zoology textbooks.
And I remember thinking how easily I could have missed it.
One distraction. One glance away. One assumption that nothing was happening.
And I would have been very wrong.
The Long Road and the In-Between Heat
A moment birders would understand.
As the day went on, I found myself in that familiar in-between space in the bush.
The long drive. The heat pressing down. Dust hanging in the air. Everything feeling slightly slowed.
By midday, the snacks were finished. My water bottle was warm. Conversations faded into silence without anyone really deciding to stop talking.
Even the birds seemed quieter than usual.
It was the kind of heat that makes you tired in a way that feels heavier than sleepiness. The kind where you start thinking that maybe nothing is really going to happen for a while.
And I remember leaning back slightly, letting myself drift into that quiet lull, thinking I could easily fall asleep right there.
Then everything changed again.
Someone said a leopard had been spotted further down the road.
Just like that, the whole vehicle shifted. Energy came back instantly. Heads lifted. Bodies straightened. Radios came alive.
We started moving.
We drove slowly, all of us aware that there was something ahead. A leopard somewhere in the area. That kind of anticipation that sits quietly in your chest.
But then, just a few hundred meters before where we were heading, we stopped again.
A Southern Carmine Bee-eater.
Small. Bright. Almost unreal in the harsh midday light.
It sat on a low perch, completely unbothered by the heat, glowing against the muted tones of the bush around it.
And I just watched it.
No urgency. No rushing. Just stillness.
It felt almost strange, stopping for something so small when something “bigger” was so close by. But in that moment, it did not feel small at all.
It felt enough.
The leopard was still out there somewhere, but it stopped being the centre of that moment for me. Because what I was experiencing right then was already complete.
Why These Moments Stay With Me
I used to think, as many people do, the bush was about the big sightings. The moments you plan for. The ones you tell people about afterwards.
But I am starting to realise it is something else entirely.
It is the elephant you almost think is uneventful until you realise what else is happening around it.
It is the impala you could easily overlook, until you actually stop and watch.
It is the long, quiet stretch of heat where nothing seems to happen, until something suddenly does.
And it is the carmine bee-eater you choose to stop for, even when something “better” is waiting ahead.
These are the moments that stay with me.
Not because they were the biggest.
But because I was actually there for them. Present in the moment. Taking everything. Becoming part of nature.
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