After dumping our gear in the tents and slathering our pasty tourist bodies with sunscreen, insect repellant, lip balm and baby’s bottom butter (Seriously, people, if you or someone you love suffers from ball chafe— this shit is *ahem* da balm) we set off across the bush in the Land Cruiser.
After Ingrid’s disheartening speech every-one’s expectations were somewhat muted. Instead of stalking lions and having heart-thumping mano-a-beasto moments with wary elephants, we would be cataloguing bugs and staring at poo. Maybe there’d be dung beetles. Or jungle chickens.
Suddenly, Isacc threw up his fist and the vehicle came to a screeching halt. Rhino tracks. Fresh ones. Everybody—out of the car!
Bewildered, we threw on our rain jackets, grabbed our cameras and— in a scene that would repeat itself at least a dozen times over the next five days— blindly followed Isacc into the bush. Along the way he pointed out broken branches, trampled grass and freshie steaming piles of poo— but, how did he know we were within stalking distance simply from the tracks by the road? Within ten minutes, however, awkward-tourist stumble-marching through the windblown thorns and drizzle we came across the monsters in question. Four of them. Enormous. Snorting mist and munching grass. Running away and then running back. Finally they settled on a defensive back-to-back-to-back-to-back compass-like formation. They were no more than twenty yards away
In the back of my mind I heard the speech: This safari is not about getting up close to the Big 5 on foot.
“It’s okay,” whispered Isaac, sensing our fear. “Keep very quiet but go ahead and take your picture.”
