Reading all these great stories here on Ranger Diaries reminds me of some of the funnier things that have happened since I started guiding back in the late nineties.  Wherever we are - be it in a vibrant city or tranquil oasis of wilderness - a sense of humour is essential. Happily, I\'ve laughed my way through many comical situations during my time in the bush.

Marnie reminded me about our time up in Botswana’s Okavango Delta. We’d left Phinda and ventured across the border for a stint as a management couple, which meant I’d be taking a break from guiding to try the more “serious” side of life in the bush. How would I cope having swapped my binoculars for a computer? Would the early morning coffee still taste great, gathered on the deck, bidding our guests farewell as they set off on their adventures for the day without me, leaving me to plough through leave cycles, month-end reports, stock takes, food and beverage orders, and fix water pipes that the elephants had plucked from the tanks overnight?

We’ll save the stories from my brief stint as a manager for another time. Let me just say that we were delighted, some considerable time later, to find ourselves unpacking our travel-worn belongings at our new house at Ngala, in South Africa’s Timbavati area just east of the Kruger Park. I was even more thrilled to be back in the field again and couldn’t wait to get out on my first game drive as a game ranger once more.

The novelty of solid walls around us kept us awake for a week or two. We’d grown so used to the night sounds through the mesh of our tent in Botswana that the relatively sound-proof brick house took a bit of getting used to. It was too quiet. We couldn’t hear what was going on outside. It was far easier to adjust to the luxury of a bathroom inside the house – not a scorpion-infested reed-fringed shower, open to the skies, making rainy weather interesting, and giving every passing elephant and baboon a chance to play with our toothbrushes and shower stuff if we forgot to take them inside the tent after we’d finished using them.

I was introduced to my tracker, Adam. Each region has a different culture, and I was eager to learn from the Shangaans, particularly as they are some of the most incredibly talented trackers in the world. His reputation as one of the best trackers in the area was widely known and I looked forward to working with him. Adam is a man of few words, and at first, revealed little with his dead-pan expression. However, when he is tracking a leopard he catches fire. His eyes burn and he’s like a bloodhound on an aniseed trail. Nothing will stop him until he finds his quarry. Then, back on the tracker’s seat, next quest, immobile face, few words once more. At this early stage at Ngala, I was finding it tricky to break the ice with him though. Adam was probably thinking the same about me, and his answers to my questions were mostly in the form of hand signals, noncommittal grunts, and shoulder shrugs.

The Timbavati River winds past the camp through the reserve and translates aptly as “River of Sand”, as it seldom flows for more than a few weeks during the rainy season. It takes considerable skill to negotiate some of the deeper sand crossings. Skill, I thought, I had in abundance thanks to our time in the Delta. I was wrong. One afternoon Adam picked up fresh leopard spoor. It led us down the bank of the river, a seldom-used route which I’d never tried, where a dwindling ribbon of shallow water trickled innocently. I asked Adam if we would make it across. He nodded vigorously, adding that I should use plenty of power. So I pointed my vehicle towards the far bank and off we went. All was great until we reached the wet bit. We sank up to our chassis in liquid sand. Stuck. Undeniably stuck.

Our guests clapped their hands with glee – what an adventure! Adam turned to me with a withering look and jumped down from the tracker’s seat. We walked around to the back of the vehicle to undo the jack, and to discuss tactics. With a heavy heart I knew that there was lots of digging ahead, and usually we would get on the radio and ask for help. The embarrassment would be shaming. I stared at Adam. Adam glared at me. Agreement. “We call no-one!”

Out came the spade, the jack, and we got down to business. During our digging and shoving, our guests took great delight in offering advice, which became more amusing as the contents of the cooler box diminished. We’d conspired to let them in on our secret of not telling the other rangers about our predicament, and when we finally became unstuck, they clapped and cheered loudly. An hour and half of hard labour, gallons of sweat, bloody knuckles and sand in our eyes, and the vehicle was rescued. Adam held out his hand. “Welcome to Ngala my friend!” and his face split into an incredible beaming smile, and he started to laugh. An enterprising lady from New York popped a champagne cork and proposed a toast to our success, and the riotous party head off to catch up with the leopard. The ice was broken.

Dinner that night was even more festive than usual. Our camp staff had set up a magical candle-lit banquet on the wooden deck overlooking the dry riverbed. The stars glittered overhead, and the distant roar of lions added a deliciously wild element to the opulence around us. Close by, three old buffalo bulls scratched their mud-caked hides on the fallen tree below the deck and hyenas whooped and cackled like lunatics. The perfect chink of crystal glasses, the gentle easing of a cork out of a bottle, easy banter on the day’s adventure flowed pleasurably like the wine and a general glow of satisfaction sat pleasantly upon us all.

And then, without warning, the congenial evening was rudely shattered by a gusty yell from our chef, Oscar. In astonishment we watched him lunge towards the table where the cheese board rested. The round of Gorgonzola that awaited us after dinner was missing. In the gloom past the table, a white object bobbed slowly – it was the Gorgonzola, being spirited away by an audacious hyena and the sight of both disappearing into the shadows was too much for Oscar.

Laughter is good for the soul. It smoothes life’s sometimes bumpy ride like a balm. It’s taught me not to take life so seriously, to find the funny side, even if I’m trying to coax management figures onto a spreadsheet that just won’t balance, or even worse, fix a broken freezer and make ice for the drinks before the game drives return. One thing is clear though. When I watch the sky turn pale, waiting to head out into the bush with my guests, my early morning coffee certainly tastes better as a ranger!