Rescuing Donkeys and the Warthog Incident

On Sunday we were up early. This was not going to be an easy day. A family we had met several years ago had sold up and were leaving behind 130 years of history, and an assortment of donkeys and horses. They could simply not make ends meet here any longer.


16 years ago they had taken over an idyllic spot, which had once been a popular out-of-town cricket club built in the 1950’s. Their house was the pavilion – a thatched white-painted building with a hedge and gate through which incoming and outgoing batsmen would have come to and fro in immaculate cricket gear. Closing my eyes I could imagine the sound of leather on willow, and the applauding of a well-played cover drive.

But my rhapsodising over this corner of a foreign field was, to the owners of this little piece of paradise, just another insult to injury. Their distant relations had come up with Rhodes in the original Pioneer column and now here they were, 120 years later, going back down south again.

The head of the family was a no-nonsense patriarch. A vice-like handshake, ice blue eyes and an unshakeable conviction about the complete and utter lack of future of his country, much of which he laid at the door of the British Government.

But today was about us finding homes for his family’s donkeys, many of which his talented daughter had rescued from wilfully cruel owners, or from abandonment by farmers in straightened circumstances, and in each was an investment in time and effort by the family to turn their miserable lives around. It was, unsurprisingly, an emotionally charged and traumatic day for that family, ahead of their seemingly imminent relocation. We loaded up a mother and young foal and set off for their new home at wildlife orphanage outside Bulawayo.

We bounced along various dusty Zimbabwe backroads with intermittently stunning views of the distant Blue Mountains, with mother and daughter in the back. Eventually we reached our destination and the new home for Lucy and Chilli. Ian drove the pick-up round the back, and we shepherded the pair into their new home. This took quite some time as they grabbed at every bit of the lush grass they could as we ambled through the trees and eventually into a cosy thatched barn with a deep bed of straw.

Karen and I began a wander round the centre. The manager had left us in the hands of her daughter and the volunteer co-ordinator who began calling out to the first resident, a gregarious and friendly warthog. This duly came barrelling out of the bush towards us at quite alarming speed and then sat behind the fence eyeing us up. Warthogs are quite amazing creatures – although basically wildpigs they look nothing like our western porkers and this one stood behind the 5 foot fence in front of me gazing up balefully.

What happened next was something that I was not wholly prepared for.

Whether it was annoyed that I hadn’t emptied a large bowl of food for it to eat, or whether it just didn’t like my shirt very much I shall never know but suddenly, without any warning, it exploded upwards as if detonator had gone off underneath it, somehow rested two razor-sharp Warthog trotters on my chest and headbutted me square on the nose.

The sensation was somthing akin to having been punched in the face by Mike Tyson. I did not so much see stars as all the planets, several constellations, a large number of asteroids and a greater part of the Milky Way. For a moment I thought I was going to hit the canvas but then I realised that I was surrounded by people asking me if I was OK.

More as a way of reassuring myself I kept saying “I’m fine. I’m fine.”, which I certainly wasn’t. My eyes were streaming and I was sure my nose was broken. Karen had by now stopped laughing and realised this might be serious but I kept saying “No really. Im fine. Honestly!” as I staggered around punch drunk.

The warthog gazed upwards, seemingly disappointed that I wasn’t squaring up for round two. The rest of the wander was a blur.

I am informed we also saw some lions, a leopard or two and possibly a Serval. We might have seen Elvis Presley, a Beatles reunion and the Queen Mother doing the Dance of the Seven Veils and I wouldn’t have noticed it.

At the end of the tour, an enclosed pen had some particularly photogenic baby vervet monkeys in them. By now I had recovered my composure slightly and came closer to the bars for a better look. At this point one baby vervet climbed level with my face, grinned an endearing baby vervet monkey grin and then peed all over my shirt.