Searching for Unicorns

by Lindi Hall (Australia)

I didn't expect to find Zambia

“Walk in single file and be very, very quiet.” We obediently lowered our voices and crept forwards, trying not to curse as we tripped over logs hidden in the grass. Ahead, the rangers passed silently over the undergrowth, their gait as smooth and silent as a leopard’s. Zambia was far lusher than I expected. My first visit to Southern Africa had coincided with the end of the wet season. The trees bowed under rich growth, the grass glittered green and the mighty Zambezi river surged high over the backs of contented hippopotamus. The scenery was glorious. The few days I had spent exploring Mosi-Oa-Tunya National Park had revealed a plethora of wildlife: elephants and giraffes, zebras and baboons. Hundreds of jewel-bright birds. So many magnificent animals. Yet, I dared to hope for more. One species above all others I desperately wished to see. It was a foolish wish; the animals in question were apparently unpredictable in their behavior and exceedingly rare. And I had only three days to find them. “There are only fourteen of them in the whole park, we may not see them,” my soft-spoken guide, William, had warned when I inquired. I had spent that morning, my last in this green country, accepting that I would have to return another time to find that which I sought. But just as we were due to head back to the resort, William’s radio buzzed. “We must be quick. The rangers have found them.” Fifteen bumpy minutes later we left the safety of the jeep and joined five rangers at the edge of the park. They wore dark green uniforms and gleaming rifles. “Walk in single file, and be very, very quiet.” The afternoon sun weighed heavily on our shoulders as we followed an invisible path through the bush. We soon stepped around the thorns of an acacia and I bit back a gasp. There they stood, maybe 50 meters away. A mother and her juvenile calf. Their thick, powerful bodies supported by tree trunk legs and huge feet. Their dark grey hides crisscrossed with streaks of cracked, brown mud. Their eyes, dark and deep. And of course, the reason for their rarity: the long, pointed horn rising from the top of their nose. Southern white rhinoceros, the unicorns of Africa. Animals I never thought I would be lucky enough to see in the wild. We crept closer. The mother, obviously accustomed to the presence of the rangers, continued to munch away at the grass. I studied her briefly with my camera and more carefully with my eyes. She was astoundingly beautiful, her breaths deep and soft, her movements slow and stately. Her calf, not yet as confident, raised his head and huffed in our direction. I snapped my camera again, trying to muffle the clicks. His interest in us was fleeting and he soon resumed eating. “The rangers always know where they are. They watch them every day,” William murmured from my side. I glanced at the rangers’ weapons and asked if the rhinos were safe in the Park. “Yes, and no,” was the reply. “We track them, but poachers have money. More money than us. With helicopters, they can fly in, kill a rhino, take its horn, and be gone in five minutes”. I fell silent then, watching the female as she ambled slowly in my direction. Her horn, a remarkable physical feature made up of unremarkable keratin, was huge. Five minutes. Five minutes to extinguish the life of an animal whose ancestors had survived Ice Ages, with a lineage that stretched back 30 million years. Five minutes to bring the magnificent two tonne beast before me to her knees with a bullet and hack off her face with a saw. I tried not to think of these dangers as I watched her mosey through the grass. Her rhythmic movements were calming. For the precious few minutes we stood there the world fell quiet and still. All too soon the rangers motioned for us to retreat. I took one final look at the beautiful mother and her son and snapped one more picture. I hoped it would not be my last. We left as quietly as we came.