Truth and speciosity claim: Never let a good story get in the way of the truth: Africa Bites, story 12 (Down at the Boat Station) and Confessions of an African Safari Guide, story 34 (Diminishing Returns)
Look, you can sit there on a five hour game drive in terrible pain, that particular and peculiar kind of pain that cries, no, begs, for relief, and just gets worse and worse, or you can go. Just go! Your choice. Choose wisely: your whole day will depend upon it.
But if you want to be coy about watering the good earth, and refuse to use anything except good old fashioned porcelain, don’t come crying to me. Hey, I’ve never been in that place. I can’t empathise. I’m an instant gratification kind of guy. Lots of coffee, feel the pressure, pick your spot, and let it go. Glorious!
Because guess what? Once you start with the bush pee, you never go back.
Take this migration business. Bloody wildebeest everywhere. And zebras. It’s just black and white and blue wherever you look. They just keep coming over the hill, like the Zulus at Isandhlwana. And they’re popular, those things. Plenty of other safari vehicles about. So there’s no privacy. People love to watch them, these animals, blindly wandering the grasslands in search of food, bawling and romping and running aimlessly around in long lines (the wildebeest, not the people) and plunging into crocodile infested rivers, the dumbasses, you know what I’m talking about. But listen my friends, don’t be afraid, when that coffee converts into acid-water in your bladder and wants OUT, and there are wildebeest milling about, well, there’s no news like new gnus… so hop out, spread ‘em, and let go. Never mind the Migration, folk, it will make your safari.
That’s what I’m talking about!
You can’t train that.