Last Chance to See

the wind and rain lashing at his gritted teeth. He is not a natural for the savannah. He was walking by now in smaller and smaller circles and discussing less and less sensible things while glowing like a traffic light. Mark was getting red and sullen.
    The two women with us thought we were complete wimps. They were Kes Hillman-Smith, a rhino expert, and Annette Lanjouw, a chimpanzee expert.
    Kes Hillman-Smith took over from me on the termite hill and scanned the horizon. Kes is in fact one of the world’s leading experts on northern white rhinos, but she was not a world authority on where in a national park the size of Scotland the twenty-two surviving white rhino were to be at that precise moment.
    I may have got my facts wrong. I seem to have conflicting information on the size of Garamba National Park. One opinion is that it is only five thousand square kilometres, in which case I would have to say that it was only the size of part of Scotland, but it was a big enough part for twenty-two rhinoceroses to be very effectively hidden in.
    Kes had been very skeptical about the termite hill from the outset, as it would befit a world expert on rhinoceroses to be, but since it had been the only thing in the distant heat haze that looked even remotely like a rhino, and we had come all this way, she had suggested that we might as well go for it.
    Kes is a formidable woman, who looks as if she has just walked off the screen of a slightly naughty adventure movie: lean, fit, strikingly beautiful, and usually dressed in old combat gear that’s had a number of its buttons shot off. She decided it was time to be businesslike about the map, which was a fairly rough representation of a fairly rough landscape. She worked out once and for all where the Land Rover had tobe, and worked it out with such ruthless determination that the Land Rover would hardly dare not to be there, and eventually, of course, after miles of trekking, we discovered that it was exactly there, hiding behind a bush with a thermos of tea wedged behind the seat.
    Once we had revived ourselves with the sort of mug of tea that makes the desert bloom and angels sing, we rattled and rolled our way back to our base, which was a small visitors’ village of huts on the edge of Garamba National Park, separated from it by a small river. We were currently the only visitors to the park, which, as I say, is the size of part of Scotland. This is quite surprising because the park is one of Africa’s richest. It is situated in northeast Zaïre, on the border with Sudan, and takes its name from the Garamba River, which meanders from east to west through the park. Its habitat is a combination of savannah, gallery forest, and papyrus marshes, and contains currently 53,000 buffalo, 5,000 elephants, 3,000 hippos, 175 Congo giraffes, 270 species of birds, 60-odd lion, and some giant eland, which are large, spiral-horned antelopes. They know there are giant eland in the park because we saw one. The last time anybody saw one there was in the 1950s. We were rather pleased about that.
    The park is very scantily visited, partly, I imagine, because of the insane bureaucratic nightmares that assail any visitor to Zaïre, but also because the park is three days’ overland journey from Bunia, the nearest airport, so only the most determined visitors actually make it.
    We were lucky. The Senior Management Adviser on the Garamba Rehabilitation Project, Charles Mackie, had come to pick us up from Bunia in an anti-poaching patrol Cessna 185. The runway on which we landed just outside the boundaries of the park was merely a flattened piece of grass along which we bounded and hopped before finally slowing to a halt. It was a dramatic change from the cold mistiness of the Virunga volcanoes—grassland as far as the horizon in everydirection, hot, dry air, a Land Rover bounding along dusty roads through the savannah, and elephants heaving themselves along in the hazy distance.
    That evening we went to have a meal at the house that Kes shares with her husband, Fraser, a park conservation manager. It is a house they built themselves, out in the bush on the edge of the river, and is a long, low, rambling structure, full of books and largely open to the weather—when it rains they lower tarpaulins over the spaces where the windows aren’t. For the two years it took them to build the house, they lived in a tiny mud hut with a dog, two cats, a pet mongoose that used to dig up the floor looking for