African Adventures in a Land Rover
Published on June 19, 2025
Sometime in the late 90’s, my friend Stan asked me and our friend Stuart if we had any interest in going to Africa on a Safari. We jumped on this idea and proceeded to plan an African safari that would take us and our wives to Tanzania’s bush country. Stan had previously hunted in Africa with a company called Robin Hurt Safaris and we opted to hire that company once more. It was a great decision and it truly was a trip of a lifetime. I wound up paying one third less for the adventure than Stan and Stuart because I had agreed to do all of my shooting with a camera. Stu and Stan both had to pay three times as much because they opted to use rifles in order to become actual big game hunters.
I could somewhat understand Stan’s lust for stalking wild animals given his background as an Oregonian outdoorsman. Stan fervently enjoyed hunting and fishing. He said the outdoor life was part of his family heritage; a family that traced its roots back to the gamblers and gunslingers who settled in Oregon during the wild west era. ”But Stu? Stu was a Brooklyn-bred guy who played stickball as a kid. The closest he had ever come to an elephant was when Barnum & Bailey came to Madison Square Garden. What was he doing with a rifle instead of a camera? I guess he harbored dreams of being the Great White Hunter; perhaps the result of seeing too many Tarzan movies.”
Once we arrived, we were connected with the Robin Hurt people who provided our supplies, our guides, and set our course. The scenery of the African veldt was lush and spectacular and during our three weeks on safari we visited and hunted in three different regions of Tanzania, each featuring different topography and indigenous game. We enjoyed hunting for animals to shoot (me with my camera, they with their rifles), but just about everything we approached ran away from us before we could press a shutter or pull a trigger. One highlight (actually a lowlight) was the time my wife Lorraine and I played a round of golf on a derelict golf course at an ancient club that hadn’t been maintained since the British had abandoned it decades earlier. In preparation for our game, a crew of local women were dispatched to the greens using tree branches as brooms to brush away any accumulated brush and debris.
I was an avid runner and enjoyed going for runs in the morning. I was not permitted to run through the bush unless I was accompanied by a spear-toting Masai warrior who was assigned to deploy the weapon should a lion, or some other attacking beast, decide I might make a good breakfast. When our trip was over I gifted my running shoes to this warrior in gratitude. These runs were the most exciting events until the auto tale which is the main subject of this story.
In addition to the native guides, our group was assigned three professional game hunters: one for each couple. Each couple had one hunter and one truck .One of the guides was a devilishly handsome Brit named John. I would often ride with John in his Land Rover as we drove across the countryside. When I commented to him that the vehicle had no side mirrors, he explained in his English accent., that they had been knocked off while driving through the bush AND they were of no use anyway. He was so wrong, almost DEAD wrong.
During our searches looking for things to shoot, (most of the time for Dinner), we would often encounter elephant herds. Many of the encounters were when the elephants would come out of the bush and cross over trails. The elephants were not to be shot at but John got great pleasure out of tormenting these magnificent beasts. He would position the Land Rover in the path of one of the elephants and drive straight at the animal, forcing it to move backwards. He would do this repeatedly until the animal became frustrated and gave up, running off in another direction. Lorraine and I were stunned by this behavior and Lorraine asked that John discontinue his little game of “Annoy the Elephant,” but, he persisted. He would soon come to regret not heeding her request.
The following day I was riding in the Rover’s passenger seat with John behind the wheel. Lorraine was back at the camp. Two guides were hanging on off the rear bumper We entered an area marked by exceptionally high grass—some as tall as our vehicle—and soon found ourselves approaching a small herd of elephants. Since Lorraine was not in the car, John felt unhindered in engaging in his favorite game of torment. But this time things were different. Instead of meekly backing off, the bull elephant came lumbering directly towards us at high speed. John swiftly turned the wheel and sped off into the tall grass. This maneuver did little good as the giant beast continued its pace as it persisted in chasing after us. John, hunched over the steering wheel, gave it the gas to accelerate but we were hampered by the tall grass that was slowing us down. There being no side mirrors, John was required to furtively sneak glances over his shoulder to judge if the elephant was gaining on us. It was during one of those backward glances that he nearly drove us directly into a tree only avoiding it on account of my warning shriek “watch out”. I could tell from John’s facial expression that he was petrified. I thought to myself, “If this guy is scared, I should be panicking!”
Just as the massive, tusked leviathan began gaining on us, and as I coincidentally broke out in a cold sweat, imagining what it would do to us when it caught up and began exacting its revenge, the grasses parted and we found ourselves on a clear path that allowed the Rover to pick up speed and leave “Dumbo” in the dust.
As we sat around the dinner table that evening recounting our near-death adventure, I turned to John and asked him, “Tell us the truth, John. Were you frightened?” He gave a condescending smile, shook his head and said, “Nah. No way.” What a lying piece of shit and I said to myself “who is the Dumbo now”. But aside from that one character flaw, John was an overall great guy and a lot of fun to be around.
Once our three week adventure in Africa concluded and we returned home to New York I thought my days of confronting wild animals were over. That was not to be the case. The very first day after we were home I was driving to work when I received a call from Lorraine on my flip phone. “You’ve got to turn around and come home right away,” she pleaded. “Hurry up. I’ll explain when you get here.” I made the U-turn and headed back home
As soon as I walked in the door, Lorraine pointed me towards the garage. “There’s a skunk in there,” she informed me. “It’s living in there and I’m afraid to go and get in my car. You’ve got to get it out of there.”
Back in Africa, every creature big or small, would run the other way as soon as they got a scent of us. One time a water buffalo, commonly referred to as the Black Death skedaddled away, but here in civilized New York, this little fucker was somehow attracted to us and began to come at me. “He must be rabid,” I told Lorraine. Grabbing my trusty broom handle.
I faced down the vicious beast and beat him out the door with a few good swats. Afterwards, I put the broom back on its hook as I told Lorraine: “That’s it, I’m hanging it up. I’m done with hunting forever.” ”