We saw them, the wild dogs, just before sunset. The pack chasing each other around with excited whelps, ready for the hunt; a population that had been close to extinction but which was now back in action. A cool breeze drifted up from the Zambezi and we relaxed with beers and impala steaks, close to nature, part of it, helping to conserve it, protect it, with guns. Contradictions.

I was here teaching geological skills at an educational camp on the northern border of Zimbabwe, by the banks of the Zambezi. The camp is in National Park Land intended for game management and limited hunting. The hunters, as well as running shooting safaris for rich dominantly white locals and American clients, holds camps for local schools to show the pupils the impressive range of wild-life and teach them conservation skills. M School, a Methodist mission in the centre of the country, was here this particular week. The school caters for the sons and daughters of the new black middle class of teachers, businessmen, civil servants and the like. Exam results are good and a fair proportion battle their way to a university education. The pupil’s behaviour is impeccable and out in the bush they are keen to absorb knowledge and see lions, buffalo, elephants and antelopes, often for the first time.

A rugged white hunter and I were all that was left by the campfire a couple of hours later, excepting a cheeky civet cat raiding the scraps left on the ground. “Married a local girl then, from Bulawayo, did you?” he said. He continued “It’s a small place, do I know her?”. I reply “I doubt it, she’s from a poor African family.”  Silence. At length, stroking the barrel of his rifle, which had rested against his leg all evening, he sighed and said “Well maybe you grew up differently and things in England have changed. But, you know, if my son came home today with a black girl then I’d probably shoot him. Dead".