There we were (you can always tell a fascinating anecdote is coming by this intro. That’s a tip, kids. Write it down). In the Kruger. In the Land-Rover. Six guests, two guides, one tracker, all of us taking the piss out of each other and getting along rather famously for nine people thrown together in the bush. In this respect we were lucky. The guests, all drinking steadily at this point, included two hippie-chic Australian sisters well-versed in the art of Eskies (coolers to you and me), one U.S. federal law enforcement big-wig tasked with big game hunting major white collar criminals (go Tim!), one medical doctor whose alma mater was, unbelievably, UC Santa Cruz and finally, the wifey and myself. Anyway…
There we were. In the Kruger. Facing down four rhino. A mother and her year-old calf plus two attendant males. The English guide, Phil— who, after being made redundant from a printer’s shop in Glasgow used his severance pay to cover guide school— turned off the engine. The thing about rhino and other large, potentially dangerous game is you’ve got to be real, real quiet they told us. And not stand up. Or dangle limbs outside the vehicle. The rhinoceri, who have difficulty seeing stationary objects, snorted in alarm then ran across the road. They hid behind a bush. Then they ran across the road again.
“Hey Phil,” I whispered. “Why did the rhino cross the road?”
Phil, sensing a trap, refused to answer.
“Ask him,” insisted the tracker, Isaac, smirking.
“I don’t know,” said Phil. “Why did the rhino cross the road?”
“Hey, you’re the fucking expert, guy, I was hoping you’d tell me.”
Everyone in the Landie started giggling. The kind you just can’t stop. The crash of rhino crossed the road again. Trust me, it was hilarious. And dangerous. Or maybe not. I guess you had to be there.
