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We come around the corner of the rutted dirt track, and see him standing proudly in the dusk by the lake. “A rhinoceros,” I exclaim, but then, “what happened to his horn?” The ranger quietly replies, “He was dehorned to stop poachers.” We ask no more questions and the drive continues past termite mounds and a herd of kudu grazing. That night we dine outside in the soft darkness of an African winter, by a large campfire under trees festooned with lights . Our plates are laden with game stew, dampers and sosaties (kebabs), followed by rich, creamy desserts.