baboon

glen and i were camped at amboseli not far from kilimanjaro.  its snowy peak, kibo, loomed over our breakfast remains.  we'd been to the permanent camp at kimana, driving 20 miles [it seemed] through a sisal plantation to get to the river and the little cluster of buildings electrified by a generator powered by the biggest, most beautiful fly wheeled engine i'd ever seen.  i, foolishly, had taken off my shoes thinking the sand by the river would be pleasant to walk in.  it was until i ran into a nest of burrs which koloboto my old personal boy on safari, now camp manager, plucked gently from between my tender toes, all the while tsk, tsking.  now we were under tents in an area glen said was full of buffalo with which we could have some "fun".

"what are we doing today,  great white hunter?"

"fooling around.  nothing special.  we'll burn some fuel.  ramble a bit."

"good.  i need some photos, but i'm not walking around in herds of buffalo without a rifle."

"no rifles in camp, you baby."

so we rambled, slipping through the scattered bush, seeing what we could see.

at some point in the morning we left the track bouncing over the infrequent rocks, dodging the pig holes, creeping, sometimes backing up to get around in the thick bush.

"this is no fun," remarked john fitzgerald, the other hunter who'd joined us the night before.  from the back seat his vision was restricted, the bush scratching by him against the window frame.

suddenly we broke into the clear and before us sat, scattered, a troop of baboons - twenty or more.  they hardly reacted to the appearance of the toyota.

"see if you can get close, glen.  i don't have any baboon pictures."

glen, from the right hand driver's seat, eased up to an old dog baboon who was munching on some root he'd grubbed up, putting me within six feet - good photo range.  i pointed the camera and the beast leapt up on the hood of the car. 

"oh shit," we all said in unison.  at that he grabbed the rear view mirror support and swung into the car, into my lap.  i lunged at glen as the baboon pawed through the sweets on the shelf that ran across the dashboard.  when he found what suited him he vaulted out the window, giving us all the finger - i'm sure i saw that. glen, with me in his lap, wrenched the car to the right, ran into a rock, and stalled.  john squalled from the back, "you crazy shits.  you'll get us all killed.  that fucking thing could have torn your arm off...."  glen and i were in hysterics, laughing like idiots.  "you are idiots," yelled john.  "fucking idiots."

true story.