Spare

In a helicopter over Kruger one morning, we flew in long loopy circles, searching for the telltale signs. Suddenly I spotted the most telltale sign of all.

There, I said.

Vultures.

We quickly descended.

Clouds of vultures took flight as we touched the ground.

We jumped out, saw frantic footprints in the dust, shell casings glinting in the sun. Blood everywhere. We followed the trail into the bush and found a huge white rhino, a gaping hole where her horn had been hacked. There were wounds all along her back. Fifteen craters, by my count.

Her six-month-old baby lay beside her, dead.

We pieced together what had happened. Poachers had shot the mother. She and her baby had run. The poachers chased them to this spot. The mother was still able to defend or shield her baby, so the poachers hacked her spine with axes, immobilizing her. While she was still alive, bleeding out, they’d taken her horn.

I couldn’t speak. The sun beat down from a hot blue sky.

My bodyguard asked the ranger: Which was killed first, the baby or the mother?

Hard to say.

I asked: Do you think the poachers are close by? Can we find them?

Impossible.

Even if they were in the area—needle, haystack.

85.

In Namibia, crossing the northern desert in search of desert rhinos, I met an amiable doctor who was tracking desert lions. They were heavily persecuted in that part of Namibia, because they often encroached on farmland. The doctor was darting some, to study their health and movements. He took our number, told us he’d call if he found one.

That night we made camp by a dry stream. Everyone else was in tents, in trucks, but I unrolled my mat by the fire and covered myself with a thin blanket.

Everyone on my team thought I was joking. This area is full of lions, boss.

I told them I’d be fine. Done it a million times.

Around midnight the radio buzzed. The doctor. He was four kilometers away and he’d just darted two lions.

We jumped into the Land Cruiser, raced down the track. Namibian soldiers assigned to us by the government insisted on coming as well. As did local police in the area. Despite the pitch-dark, we found the doctor easily. He was standing beside two enormous lions. Both were lying on their bellies, heads resting heavily on their giant paws. He aimed his torch. We could see the lions’ chests rising and falling. Quiet breathing.

I knelt beside the female, touched her skin, looked at her half-closed amber eyes. I can’t explain it, and I can’t defend it…but I felt that I knew her.

As I stood, one of the Namibian soldiers brushed past me, crouched beside the other lion. A big male. The soldier held up his AK-47, asked one of his buddies to get a photo. As if he’d made a kill.

I was about to say something, but Billy the Rock beat me to it. He told the Namibian soldier to get the fuck away from the lions.

Sullen, the soldier slunk away.

I turned now to say something to the doctor. There was a flash. I turned again, to see where it had come from, which soldier had shot his phone camera, and heard the men gasp.

I looked back: The lioness was standing before me. Resurrected.

She stumbled forward.

It’s OK, the doctor said. It’s OK.

She fell again, right at my feet.

Goodnight, sweet princess.

I looked left, right. No one was near me. The soldiers had all raced back to their trucks. The one with the AK-47 was rolling up the window. Even Billy the Rock had taken a half-step back.

The doctor said, Sorry about that.

Don’t be.

We returned to camp. Everyone climbed into their tents, their trucks, except me.

I returned to my mat by the fire.

You’re joking, they all said. What about the lions? We just saw proof that there are lions out here, boss.

Pff. Trust me. That lioness isn’t going to hurt anybody.

In fact she’s probably watching over us.

86.

Back to America. With two good mates. January 2016.

My mate Thomas was dating a woman who lived in Los Angeles, so our first stop was her house. She gave a welcome party, invited a small group of friends over. Everyone was on the same page about alcohol—in other words, committed to consuming large amounts in a short time.

Where we didn’t agree was which type.

The typical Brit, I asked for a gin and tonic.

Hell no, the Americans said, laughing. You’re in the States now, pal, have a real drink. Have a tequila.

I was familiar with tequila. But mostly club tequila. Late-night tequila. What I was being offered now was proper tequila, fancy schmancy tequila, and I was being schooled in all the many ways of drinking it. Glasses were floating towards me containing tequila in every form. Neat. Rocks. Margarita. Splash of soda and lime.