Bristol to Botswana and Back

CHINYIKA FARM,  ZIMBABWE MIDLANDS,   Black Rhino Tracking.

                 It is 07h00 and we are bumping along in an ancient open land-rover through dense woodland to make a rendez-vous with two trackers who tell us on the walky-talky that they have found fresh black rhino tracks.   There are many golden orb spider webs across the track, and as we drive through them they are destroyed, and the huge spiders, as if seeking revenge, run madly around the floor of the vehicle and over our bare legs to terrorise us.  

                 When we meet the trackers we leave the land-rover, and proceed, as silently as possible, on foot. We hope to catch up with the rhino, who move very slowly through the bush, browsing as they go, without them being aware of us.   This morning we are lucky because there is a slight breeze, and we seem to be downwind of the general way they are going.  Their sense of smell and hearing are both very acute, but their vision is not much good.  There are two trackers and they are very skillful.   There is grass about 18inches high here, and as the rhino passes, this grass is partially flattened.  Then over the next few hours it rises up again.  So this can be used to gauge how long its been since the rhino passed that way.   In places there is no grass but sandy soil which can show tracks, especially when damp after rain as now.  Various indications can tell the trackers how old the track is.  When newly made, a footprint has a very crisp outline, which gradually fades.  One can often see where a twig or branch has been bitten off, and sometimes a whole tree is pushed over. Occasionally a large pile of rhino dung is encountered, and how hot and steamy it is can indicate how old it is.  The trackers walk on and we follow. 

                  The last in line is Ken King, the farmer who owns the land, and he carries a .465 Winchester with a cartridge up the spout and the safety catch on.  For twelve years his farm has been one of eight farms forming a black rhino conservancy here.  If one charges, he might fire a round into the ground to halt the charge, but he has never shot a rhino itself. He says he has been charged eight times but only once injured, when two years ago one messed him about rather while he was lying on the ground, and he had to be flown to a Harare hospital to have a section of damaged bowel removed.  The bush we are walking through is mainly brachystegia bushes and trees, and only a few acacias, which is easier because the latter have extensive thorn systems to avoid.    The visibility is usually only a few metres because the bush is quite dense.  As we proceed, at times the trackers lose the track, or find they are going along an old track.  Then we have to back up, and they explore separately until a low whistle announces that one of them has found what he thinks is today's trail.  Then we're off again. 

               We do not see any other game, but we do see other tracks, of impala or kudu, and the occasional aardvark burrow.  There is hardly any bird song, just the ever-present cape turtle-dove (“work harder, work harder”) and sometimes the mournful descending scale of the greenspotted dove (“my father’s dead, my mother’s dead, what shall I do, do, do, do, do”).  

                 After about an hour of this we are beginning to wonder if we'll ever see black rhino, when suddenly the tracker in front stops and holds up a hand.  Everyone stops and stands still. There is absolute silence. There is no breeze.  The bushes and trees seem to surround us and hem us in. The adrenalin begins to pump.  Then he goes forward slowly into a more open area where we are able to spread out, and then we see the two grey shapes about twenty metres away, partly obscured by the bushes.  One is standing staring in our direction, the other is lying down.  The one standing is a female, the other smaller one is her daughter aged about one year. Evidently the mother has heard us arrive.