(as published in the August/September 2025 print issue of the bilingual Weg!/go! Magazine)

How wild can a wilderness hike get? Pretty wild, writes Maria Stallmann, recounting one afternoon in Hluhluwe-iMfolozi.

I never thought a rhino might be the death of me, but there I was, running for my life. 

Fifteen minutes prior, crossing a dry riverbed in Hluhluwe-Imfolozi Game Reserve, my existential state was very different. It was 2014 and I was 16 years old. Our group had been walking for two days through the acacia woodland of South Africa’s oldest game reserve, and I was having a splendid time. I was chatting with my parents and two family friends, and at times we would stop to listen to the guides tell us about this spoor or that bird call.  

We walked in single file, one guide in front, one at the back, both carrying loaded rifles. This was merely a precaution, we were told. In the unlikely event that it became necessary, they could shoot at most animals. But if it was a rhino, they could not, in any circumstance whatsoever, use their guns. As endangered animals, rhinos were simply too precious. If it was a rhino, we would just have to run. Thankfully, the only animals we had encountered so far were impala, a few zebras and a bush pig. 

At noon, we exited the riverbed onto the sandy bank. Beyond, a slope rose from reeds to higher ground. From the far side of the bank, two white rhinos – a mother and her calf – advanced towards us. The direction of the wind and their poor eyesight meant they were still unaware of our presence. The guides ushered us behind some reeds, and we sat. Waiting, watching.  

The rhinos passed in front of us, only 20 metres away. I could hear the thuds of their feet. The baby plodded ahead, stopping occasionally to bury its broad mouth in grass. The mother loomed behind.

Once they’d gone on a fair distance, we emerged from our hideout. Everyone else forgot quite quickly about the rhinos and began to look at rocks and dung beetles. What they did not see, however, was that the wind was now blowing our scent directly towards the rhinos, and the calf was becoming restless…  

At the start of our walking safari, we’d been told if we wanted to alert the guides to something, we should not use human exclamations as these might alarm the animals. Rather, we should click with our tongues. The popping noises apparently sounded more natural. 

So, as I seemed to be the only one to notice the jittery unease of the calf (now about 40m away), I tried to get the attention of the group with frantic tongue clicks. To no avail. 

Spooked, the calf charged.  

Although ‘small’, this was no negligible force to contend with. But the real worry was the two-tonne mother who followed close behind, wielding a metre-long horn.  

Things happened quickly. Directly in the line of attack, the head guide jumped to the right. My father leaped to the left – into the nearest bush – and the rear guide shouted “Up! Up! Up!” We all scrambled in terror. My mother misunderstood ‘up’ and attempted to clamber into a shrub.  

The guide had meant the hill – the rest of us dashed for it. In the fever of flight, I fell in the reeds, scraping my palms. I thought I was done for! Luckily, we all made it to the top of the slope.

The rhinos had gone and we were safe, my parents included.

As the adrenaline started to ebb, our bodies began shaking and sweating. I could barely walk; my knees were so weak. We were elated – high – at the realisation that we were alive; that our frail bodies had escaped the thundering gallop of nearly three tonnes of rhino. 

With the comedown came the comprehension that, without the usual armour of our cars, we were simply bodies, human bodies so naked and animal.  

Mine was whole and shaking with life. Every nerve sizzled. My senses were sharpened; my skin flamed with heat. My heart pounded life life life and all of it burst from me the only way it could – in giddy, incredulous laughter.  

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