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We were chased by a Black Rhino for about two kilometers. Or for four extraordinarily long minutes at a furious 30km an hour. The other rhino we darted never really went to sleep, so we didn’t drill into his horn to implant the chip we were supposed to implant.
Are those my most vivid memories of Tswalu? Probably not. They should be, as that was where excitement erupted on our trip. But Tswalu Kalahari Reserve has more to offer than mere excitement. There’s the little hut I stayed in for one thing. Not your standard mud hut exactly, rather a thatched palace-for-one (or two) containing much of what your heart, stomach, kidneys, spleen and other body parts desire. We were a clutch of journalists, guests of SABMiller, flown there to dart two rhinos and insert tracing chips into their horns. Of course we were treated like kings or chiefs, the way public relations people tend to treat people with the power of the pen. Drinks, biltong, fruit, wine – all in your hut (you can’t really talk about a “chalet” in the middle of the Kalahari, the word is redolent of snow); gifts of shirts and hats and beautiful books and body massages and breakfasts, lunches, dinners, snacks, constant constant constant eating and drinking and more drinking. Responsibly, of course. Like it warns on the bottle. Yep, it was real hardship. The absolute toughness of Africa. There was also beer, in case I forget to mention it, from Grolsch to Castle, Black Label, Miller’s and – well, you can imagine. You know the SABMiller brands. And one breakfast was never enough: rusks and coffee before the game drive; rusks, biscuits, cereal, fruit, dried fruit, coffee, tea or hot chocolate on the drive served in a great setting in the bush; then finally a full breakfast with eggs, bacon, sausages, mushrooms, tomato, fruits, jams by the dozen and everything else awaiting our return at the lodge. |
