35

The Land Rover carrying Japer and Wilberforce was waved to a halt yet again. If the number of police check-points on the road from the landing strip to the rhino sanctuary were any indicator, the vehicles of Kuwisha must surely be among the most frequently checked in the world, Japer thought to himself.

In the space of sixty kilometres there must have been no fewer than three roadblocks. At each one, a well-turned-out policeman circled the car, barking out questions in Swahili to which Isaac, the driver, gave monosyllabic responses. Tyres, brakes, headlamps, rear-view mirror, all came under scrutiny.

Each time Japer went through his routine, explaining that he had come from London, to help the people of Kuwisha.

“The Queen greets you,” he said when one inspection seemed unnecessarily rigorous. “I am ambassador for NoseAid,” he added.

And each time, after checking the papers for the car and an exchange with Isaac, the police waved them on.

“It’s the end of the month,” said Isaac.

“Ah,” said Japer, “I get it. Car. Licence. Expires. Checking.”

“No, no,” said Wilberforce. “End of the month. They are hungry . . .”

“Good Lord,” said Japer, impressed by the example of hungry policemen who nevertheless gave road safety such a high priority.

Soon they turned off the potholed main road, onto a rutted track.

The Land Rover lurched from side to side, and only Japer’s seatbelt prevented his head from hitting the roof.

Potholes and punctures permitting, Wilberforce assured Japer, they would reach the camp, which was home to the rhino the readers of the Clarion had adopted, in twenty minutes.

“I assume,” said Japer, “that the road is like this because of the poachers?”

“Excuse?” said Isaac.

“The worse the road, the more difficult to get access,” Japer suggested. “In this way you can keep the location of the rhino a secret . . .”

Isaac swerved to avoid another pothole.

Wilberforce intervened.

“Politicians,” he said, “always chopping, always eating.” His hand conveyed invisible food to his mouth, in the ubiquitous gesture that across Africa accompanied the phrase. “Eating,” he repeated, “always eating.”

“Good God!” said Japer, shocked. “Disgraceful.”

Wilberforce pointed to a group of giraffe, and Isaac concentrated on the track ahead. No further words from them seemed necessary. Though they were surprised that their passenger had reacted so strongly to the disclosure of what was common knowledge.

Surely everyone knew that Kuwisha’s Department of Parks and Wildlife was rife with sleaze, and notorious for crooked deals in which money intended for road maintenance went on inflated or non-existent contracts, into the pockets of the politicians?

Roads were bad because money was “diverted”, as the World Bank would put it. Simple as that. Deliberate neglect of a route in an effort to make sensitive areas of the national parks inaccessible in the hope of protecting vulnerable or endangered species, had nothing to do with it.

Isaac negotiated another pothole.

Just to make sure that he hadn’t been misunderstood, Wilberforce repeated both the feeding gesture and the words: “Politicians. Always eating.”

He glanced at Japer, who seemed satisfied.

“Absolutely,” said Japer. He searched for a pen and notepad in one of his many useful pockets. “Like where I come from. Except they eat cows, not rhinos.”

“Like Kuwisha?” said Wilberforce, somewhat uncertainly.

Japer gave a cry of triumph. The notebook and ballpoint pen had been located in a handy pouch, sewn onto his trouser legs. This particular pocket was just above his knee.

“Now tell me about the Masaai,” said Japer, pen in hand, notebook open. “At least they don’t eat rhino,” he chuckled.

Isaac and Wilberforce laughed politely. The man must be mad. Best humour him.

“Can I see Masaai in town?”

“Plenty, plenty,” said Wilberforce.

A thought suddenly struck Japer.

“How many rhinos do you have in Kuwisha?”

Wilberforce gave the question careful consideration for some time.

“Many.”

Japer made a note.

“So how many is many? Approximately?”

Although Wilberforce had a fair idea, he kept the figure to himself. Depending on the motive of the questioner, the correct answer could be “very few” or “too many”. It had to be pitched just right – few enough to keep up a shuttle of concerned visitors from far-off countries who used his services, and not so many that the shuttle would cease as international attention was focused on another African state. True, there was talk of a wave of poaching, not only of rhinos. According to the minister for the Department of Parks and Wildlife, there were at least fifty of the beasts – though the minister of finance thought this estimate was generous. Wherever the truth lay, Wilberforce was determined to keep his head down.

More than his job was worth.

“Plenty,” he said.

Had the Land Rover not hit a particularly deep pothole at that moment, Japer would have pursued the matter. As it was, the combination of the jolt, and the answer to his earlier question – the matter-of-fact assertion that politicians as well as poachers were responsible for the plight of Kuwisha’s rhinos – distracted him.

They stopped for a coffee break, and Japer took the opportunity to jot down a few ideas.

It was not his job, strictly speaking, to prepare a script for the NoseAid presentation of his visit to Kuwisha, but the excursion into the countryside had emboldened, informed and inspired him. Anyway, the notes could always be used for one of his columns in the Clarion.

He started writing: “Deep in the East African bush, reached after a bone-shaking journey along a potholed track, stands one of Kuwisha’s magnificent rhinos . . . protected from the predations of poachers and politicians alike.

“Its sheer inaccessibility is a first line of defence against the notorious armed poachers and their cruel search for what they call ‘white gold’, the beast’s fabled horn – in fact a compressed mat of hair.

“But these extraordinary creatures come under attack from a less well-known source . . . Kuwisha’s corrupt politicians!

“They love to eat the surprisingly succulent flesh of these ponderous pachyderms . . . beasts that pair for life, and remain attached to their offspring.”

He knew he should have checked on the last two facts, but what the heck? It would work wonders with the public, and anything that got them digging deeper into their pockets was surely worthwhile.

The track ran out in a clearing, where there was a wooden palisade, behind which stood a rhino, representative of Kuwisha’s endangered population.

All involved played their parts competently. A director commissioned by NoseAid, a young man who had made the award-winning TV ad for Crunchy Peanut Butter and was donating his services free, took charge of proceedings.

Neither beast misbehaved. The rhino had been sedated, the tiny orphan kept his bladder under control, and Japer was not peed on. Japer had taken one look at the infant chosen to represent Kuwisha’s new generation and refused point blank to have it on his lap.

Far from causing offence, his refusal to handle the toddler was easily turned to the big-hearted columnist’s advantage. The guest from England, it was explained to onlookers, had, the day before his departure from London, been visiting his local children’s hospital. He had been warned shortly before his departure for Kuwisha that one of the toddlers he had embraced was displaying the symptoms of measles. It would be safer, the doctor in London had advised, if Japer had no direct contact with children for the next fortnight.

The explanation was greeted by murmurs of appreciation. And when Japer suggested that the massive syringe used on the rhino also be applied to the wide-eyed child he had been expected to cradle in his arms, a sympathetic audience laughed heartily.

The director himself sat with the little boy on his knee. A second photo was taken, this time of Japer looking fondly down on a small sack of coffee beans that he was cradling in his lap. Using computer wizardry it would be a simple matter to transpose the images.

Now it was just a matter of the last lines, and Japer delivered with a passion that surprised him: “So thanks to this partnership, this unique alliance between NoseAid, the Clarion – the paper with a heart as big as Africa – the people of Kuwisha, and the World Bank, we can help a child, save a rhino.”

“Or help a rhino, save a child,” continued Japer. “Or help a rhino save a child.” Japer threw his canvas hat on the ground in mock anger.

“Who fooking cares?” he exclaimed, doing a passable imitation of an Irish accent. “Together we can make Kuwisha a better place, for animals and people alike.”

It was a wrap.