Tale guide

A prickly tale

There are few things more rewarding than walking in the African bush in the company of a true master of the environment. It is as if he draws open the blinds that restrict the view of us ordinary mortals.

What appears to be a maze of bushes against the background of sky and sand will be turned into a living and vibrant cacophony of fauna and flora that is home to insects, the drama of animals big and small and the sparkle of song, colours and often peculiar habits of the birds.

So impressive are these ‘bushmen’ and indeed the San, that to aspire to their skill and knowledge, not to mention their often quiet yet commanding disposition, is a desire of many a male psyche.

And consequently, we have an abundance of aspiring ‘bushmen’ whose expertise can be awe inspiring for as long as it remains unchallenged.

It was thus with a sense of excitement and anticipation that Ann and I set off on one of our many excursions into one of the wildlife parks to be found all over Southern Africa.

Ann is a worldly and wise Yorkshire lass with a keen sense of humour, an eye for adventure and, as was to be expected, a particularly healthy respect for the wild. So she looked to me for guidance and protection in this sometimes dangerous environment.

We set up camp one afternoon as the clouds rolled in across the sky.

We positioned the caravan under a camelthorn tree and rolled out the caravan’s expansive tent in which we set up the table and chairs and an assortment of cooler boxes.

Shortly after sunset the heavens opened. We played cards until late before settling down snugly into the warmth of the caravan’s double bed and fell asleep to the sound of the steady rain.

I was awakened by a sharp pain in my kidneys and Ann’s soft, urgent call. “Richard, what’s that noise?”

“Ugh?” the bushman speaks.

Another sharp pain. “Wake up. There’s something in the tent.

A rhythmic chomping-like sound penetrated the layers of sleep from which the bushman was steadily awaking. “It’s just the water falling off the tent”, the bushman declared irritably. “Go back to sleep”.

The kidney contracted in pain once again. “Richard! There’s something in the tent!”

There was clearly little else to do but to get out of bed and put my darling’s mind at ease with a demonstration of the subdued temperament typical of the experienced bushman that I am.

I got up and walked over to the open caravan door and leaned out. To my surprise I was staring up the rear of a gigantic porcupine whose head was submerged in our vegetable basket and was having a field day on a large ripe onion. The animal took up the best part of the tent and was too unbelievably close for comfort.

“Crunch, crunch. Crunch, crunch”, she chewed rhythmically with gusto.

We had hung a few towels over the open caravan door to dry and it was these very towels that were hampering my immediate attempt to close the door so as to barricade us against the beast, which, I might add, was the first of its kind I had ever seen in the wild.

Every time I leant forward to lift the towels off the door, the porcupine menacingly raised its quills and I instinctively lifted my arm to shield my eyes should she spray me with a hail of her sharp missiles.

As I leant forward, so the quills raised up towards me and as I recoiled, Ann giggled.

In fact the giggling got louder each time.

It was when I leant forward for the umpteenth time that I finally got wise to the fact that Ann was deliberately knocking on the window in order to antagonize the porcupine into bracing itself and was thoroughly enjoying seeing the bushman cowering each and every time.

Finally, I got the door closed and sat down with a sigh.

“Why did you cower so?” asked my naughty novice.

“Because” the  exasperated bushman replied, “if the porcupine decided to shoot its quills, I could have lost an eye or worse”.

“Porcupines don’t shoot their quills you dummy!” replied the Yorkshire lass.

“Are you sure?” asked the bushman…

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