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Even if I had wanted to remain in the relative security of the tent, my lungs would not allow it. I emerged gasping and tripping over lines and pegs to see Lassie chasing a terrified black and white ruffled-haired thing, no bigger than a football, into the bushes. The man from Mars remained inside the tent, zipped his head into his sleeping bag and grunted about wanting to sleep. Any belief I had that men and women could ever think alike, was dispelled at that moment. Skunk JuiceSkunk spray all over my tent in the early hours of the morning is a nightmare I could never have dreamed up. The foul glandular juice was all over the tent and somehow on my hands which I wiped onto my T shirt which as I took it off, rubbed onto my hair which of course made me stink like the centre of an extremely mature garbage dump. Lassie meanwhile wagged furiously at me, all steamed up from his exertions but smug and smell free. Every good story should have a moral and this naturally has one, but it is a sensitive issue which I have been trying to keep under wraps. You might think that I would harp on about when the going gets tough the girls had better look after themselves, but that is old news. No the moral to this story is quite simply: When going camping in deepest darkest Africa or the skunk ridden Cederberg, borrow a tent from your next door neighbour. P.S. Thanks to my neighbour Aage Buus for lending me his tent. Carrie Hampton can be contacted on email: carrieh@iafrica.com Copyright © 2002 Carrie Hampton. All rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or in part without the permission of the author is prohibited. | 
