In a development so predictably tragic that it borders on farce, three tourists have perished in Uganda after their hired Land Cruiser failed to negotiate a peace treaty with a bull elephant. The incident occurred on the Kampala-Gulu highway, a stretch of tarmac notorious for hosting impromptu wildlife negotiations at speeds exceeding 60 kilometres per hour. The elephant, unsurprisingly, was the victor.
Witnesses describe a scene of absolute chaos as the vehicle, rented from a firm with a name like 'Wild Things Safaris' or 'You'll Be Fine Tours', attempted to prove that internal combustion engines are a match for five tonnes of testosterone. They were not. The elephant, perhaps mistaking the Toyota for a rival elephant in a cheap polyester suit, decided assert dominance was the only option.
Now, the UK Foreign Office has issued a sage warning to safari operators: 'Do not become intimate with the fauna using motor vehicles.' This from the same department that once advised Britons in Spain to 'avoid consuming bucket sangria.' But it is the content of the warning that shines with the luminosity of a thousand neon suns. Apparently, the safest distance from an elephant is 'not between its legs.'
Let us examine the economics of this tragedy. Three lives lost, but how many gin and tonics does that represent at Heathrow's duty-free? How many times will their photos be circulated on WhatsApp groups with the caption 'Too soon?' The safari industry, a multibillion-pound grift predicated on the assumption that tourists want to see wild animals in their natural habitat without understanding that wild means 'not domesticated and thus capable of crushing your spine with a sneeze,' must now adjust its risk assessment. Perhaps helmets for all passengers? Or a mandatory lecture on the dietary habits of pachyderms.
But the real story here is the elephant. Yes, that majestic beast, standing there with its enormous tusks, its wise, weary eyes, and its absolute disregard for the tinny box that rammed into its left flank. The elephant is now a murder suspect. It will be tracked, sedated, and probably moved to a sanctuary where it can ponder the absurdity of human locomotion. Or maybe it will simply be shot, because that's what we do when the wild refuses to conform to our tourism brochures.
Meanwhile, in Whitehall, civil servants are drafting a new protocol. They will call it 'Operation: Don't Be a Moron.' It will be printed on waterproof paper and distributed to all rental car agencies in East Africa. It will advise driving at a 'majestic 10 miles per hour' and keeping a 'reverent distance' from any animal larger than a Land Rover. But we all know this is futile. The next pack of tourists will be fresh off a flight from Gatwick, wearing khaki shorts and drunk on aviation gin, convinced that their GoPro can withstand a charge.
In memory of the three departed, I propose a moment of silence. But not before we raise a glass to the elephant. Long may it wander, free from the tyranny of the internal combustion engine. And to the safari operators who will now face a surge in insurance premiums and a precipitous drop in bookings, I say this: you had one job. One job to keep the tourists away from the spiky bits of nature. And you failed. Splendidly.
This is not a story about manslaughter. It is a story about irony. The irony of assuming that because you have paid £300 for a guided tour, the lions will not eat you. The irony of believing that a dented bumper on a Toyota is a fair trade for an elephant's ribcage. The irony of thinking that death, when packaged as 'adventure,' is somehow less final.
I will now return to my gin, a drink that never killed anyone, except perhaps through inspired stupidity. But that is a story for another day.
