.An Emerald In The Desert

From the air the Okavango Delta comes as a sudden surprise. The flight from Gaborone, capital city of Botswana, to Maun at the edge of the Okavango Delta is drab and monotonous being mostly Kalahari type countryside; dry and uninteresting with scattered native Kraals, the grass roofed huts surrounded by log palisades to keep out wild animals. The ground is crossed by myriads of footpaths made by people, cattle and wild game animals. Ripples of wind blown sand covered with sparse brown grass and the occasional stunted tree can be seen to go on for miles as the Piper Cherokee wings its way towards Maun, the launch point of our safari into the Okavango Delta.

I had met Paul in the hotel he owned in Lichtenburg in the far western Transvaal. I was in the area engaged in selling huge one way disc plows to the local farmers in the Western Transvaal which is one of the maize growing areas of South Africa. Paul also owned a company which sold tractors and implements, and I had done some demonstrations to the farmers using his tractors which were well suited to the plows I sold. The result was that we sold a number of units, and the week had been most successful. The manager of the tractor company and I were celebrating our success in the bar when Paul walked in and joined our conversation.

The discussion soon drifted to Paul's passion, hunting, and he was impressed by the fact that I had had extensive hunting experience in Central Africa. We talked about the various game animals, guns, calibers and hunting vehicles. The best hunting areas were debated and he asked me if I had ever hunted in Botswana. I told him that I had never hunted in Botswana, but I believed that it was as pristine as can be encountered anywhere in Africa. With that the gathering broke up and I went off to bed. The next day I departed for my base in Johannesburg.

It was a few days later that my boss called me into his office and told me that he had had a call from Paul who demanded that I accompany him on a two weeks trip into Botswana where he had certain business contacts, and that he required my presence at a few of his meetings. My boss told me that he had consented to the request, and that I should get ready to leave for Lichtenburg the next morning. A three hour drive brought me into Lichtenburg, and I went up the stairs to Paul's office. He ushered me into his office which was large and sumptuously furnished with many trophies adorning the walls.


"Do you see what is missing here?" Paul asked, waving at all the stuffed heads. I shook my head. "A massive buffalo bull!" He transfixed me with a glare as if it was my fault that he did not have a stuffed buffalo head amongst the rest. "I have arranged for us to go hunting one in the Okavango Delta. We fly to Gaborone at four this afternoon, and tomorrow we will land at Maun. I have arranged licenses for you from a buddy who cannot make the trip. If there is anything you need for the trip I suggest that you go out now and purchase it as we will take off at four sharp."

We took off at four as promised, and after two hours landed at Gaborone where we cleared customs and immigration and then booked in to the Holiday Inn. I settled in to my room, and at seven went down to the bar to see what had happened to Paul. The barman informed me that he was in the gambling hall, and there I found him playing blackjack. I am not much of a gambler, and by eight I went off to have supper and go off to bed. Paul continued to play, and as I walked into the dining room the next morning for breakfast he came out of the gambling hall, and joined me for breakfast. He had not slept all night, and informed me that he had lost a king's ransom; his mood was not good.

Taking off from Gaborone airport he set the autopilot and said to me. "I am going to take a nap, but if we stray from the road, just wake me, and when you see the Okavango Delta on the horizon wake me so that we can land."

Mile after mile of Kalahari countryside sped beneath the Cherokee while I sweated watching in case we strayed from the main road to Maun, and Paul snored softly while he slept. Suddenly there it was on the horizon! A green contrast to the monotonous drab Kalahari stood out like a mirage ahead of us with a burst of color. I leaned across and shook Paul awake. He sat up wide awake and took over the controls.



Paul put the Cherokee into a wide turn and I gazed out over the massive delta. Green papyrus with channels of clear water interspersed with stands of riverine forest, dark leafy trees clustered among wide patches of Mopani woodland. From the air I could see that the campsites would be as good if not better than anywhere in Africa, together with the crystal clear water it was a veritable paradise. A thrill of anticipation coursed through me; it was one of the greatest sights of the bewitching continent.

We approached the airstrip and Paul put the Cherokee down like a butterfly alighting on a flower. His driver was waiting with his Land Rover, having been sent on ahead.

Our first stop was at the Crocodile camp, a delightful lodge just outside of Maun. We broke out the camping gear and set up sleeping facilities in a reed enclosure on the banks of the river. The night was clear with stars sharply visible and after climbing under our mosquito netting we fell instantly asleep. Paul's driver had already presented our licenses to the authorities at Maun, and collected the tracker and guide who were to accompany us, so that an early start was in order.

We awoke before the dawn, packed up the camp, and took off for Toteng, a village on the shores of Lake Ngami. The lake is more like a pan with water knee deep in most places after a season of rains. When we arrived the lake was dry as a bone, and the naked children running around the village were covered in a layer of grey dust that disguised their natural color completely. Washing was a luxury they could only afford when the lake was full. The rest of the year dust baths are in order. If the elephants can do it, so could they, and one could see that they enjoyed it immensely. I never saw one with body sores, or rashes of any sort although I will add that I never got too close to them.


Leaving Toteng behind us we travelled in a North Westerly direction deeper into the delta. The waters had started to recede and many of the channels were dry with only the deepest streams holding water. The grass was lush however, and the trees were full of green leaves. The bush was full of spoor, and it was not long before we encountered a small herd of Impala. A beautiful big ram stood looking at us about thirty yards off with long lyre shaped horns held aloft. He snorted at us and stamped his front feet in indignation at the intrusion of his territory. Paul took up his rifle, a magnificent 6.5 Manlicher full stock, fitted with a Pecar Berlin scope, and I surmised that the Impala had breathed his last. Paul stood two paces from the vehicle and took aim through the telescope. The ram kept standing and after what to me seemed an age the shot went off and the dust flew about five yards behind the buck. With a leap the Impala was off, and Paul let off another two rapid shots at him which both missed by a mile. "Just hunting jitters," I thought to myself. "He will come right after a few shots." The next animal we encountered was a large Warthog. Paul leapt out of the Landie and let fly at the hog. The bullet kicked up dust under the hog's belly, and the animal took off tail in the air and kept running. Again Paul sent two shots after it, but they were so far missed that we could not even see a strike. He took the rifle and threw it to the ground. Fortunately there was thick grass and the rifle did not strike the ground directly. I went and retrieved it, and wiping the dust off with a cloth, I stowed it behind the seat.

We arrived at the camp spot at about midday, and set up camp. Paul had brought a massive tent which his driver pitched for him under a large leafy tree. I had to take my bedroll and stow it near the fire in the open. We set up a large fold out table and some camp chairs, and Paul brought out his rifles. He had a beautiful .416 Rigby, a .378 Weatherby Magnum, and the 6.5mm Maanlicher.

"Sorry," He said, "We could not organize any hunting licenses for you, so you will have to only be an observer. However you can back me up when we shoot the Buffalo, and then you can carry the 378."

"You mean to tell me that I have come all this way and now I cannot hunt?" I was livid. "Now I must sit here for ten days just watching you do all the hunting. Why could you not convert the licenses which your pal could not use?" I knew that the Game department would not have had any objection to that.

"Well my pal said that he would use them for another occasion, and therefore he would not release them to me."

"You mean to tell me that when we left Lichtenburg you knew that there would be no hunting licenses for me, and yet you let me get on board your plane without telling me?"

Suddenly I was totally irritated, and my attitude showed it. Paul however was quite nonchalant, and let my mood run off him like water off a duck's back.

"Look at it this way," Paul said, "You are in the bush with all the animals around you, and not trying to chat up some stingy farmers to buy your implements. You can get rid of some frustrations and absorb some tranquility; in the meantime I will get that Buffalo head for my collection."

He was quite right. I was not paying for the trip, and even though there would be no hunting for me this time I was in one of the gem areas of Africa, and I would have the opportunity of observing and relishing the unspoilt wilderness and the freshness of the environment with its many animal, bird and plant species. My mood lifted, and I resolved to make the best of the observer status which had been assigned to me. I had brought a notebook, and using it as a journal I started to record every interesting aspect of the trip as it happened.


As soon as the camp was set up and enough firewood gathered and deposited at the fire pit, we had some lunch consisting of corned beef sandwiches and a mug of coffee. I helped Paul to load his rifles, and took the Manlicher to the edge of the camp, and setting up a target at one hundred and fifty yards took a shot. I hit the target dead centre, and then took two more shots to make sure that the scope was set properly, and had not sustained any damage when Paul discarded the rifle. My conclusion was that Paul still suffered from the jitters, and he should take the shots comfortably and relax when taking aim. I mentioned it to him, but he pooh poohed the idea.

When the afternoon started to cool off we took the Land Rover and drove along the track deeper into the Delta. Skirting a channel which was drying fast we came to a wide vlei. The ground was damp, and we could see that towards the centre where the Papyrus stood high and luxurious there must be a pan of water. Avoiding the wet ground we drove along the edge of the vlei, and as we came to the opposite edge we spotted a group of about twelve Blue Wildebeests and four Tsessabys grazing at the far edge. Paul and the tracker alighted from the Land Rover and stalked the group through the Nile grass and Papyrus while I stayed at the vehicle and observed their progress through the binoculars. Paul had taken the 378 Weatherby, a fine weapon, and soon I saw him sink down to a kneeling position taking aim. There was a fine bull which stood broadside on and I surmised that Paul was aiming at him. When the shot sounded I saw a Tsessaby calf behind the Wildebeest fall. And the herd was off at a gallop. They were not wild so that it was plain that they had not been shot at often, and about two hundred paces away they stopped and stood watching Paul who was running towards them He again sank to his knees and took aim. The shot echoed and a wildebeest went down, got up and ran about fifty paces before collapsing and started to kick with all four legs in the air.

We drove the Land Rover around the vlei and up to the Wildebeest. I could see that it had taken the shot in the belly the heavy bullet striking it down. It had then angled forward and exited just behind the shoulder blade. The meat was a mess, and had the rifle been a smaller caliber the poor animal would have suffered dreadfully.

Returning to camp I assisted in dressing the meat that could be used, and cutting up the biltong while Paul's driver prepared supper. After a tasty meal of tsessaby liver and kidneys with stiff maize meal porridge we called it a day and I turned into my bedroll next to the campfire. The far off roar of a lion made me pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders as if that could protect me from an assault by that king of all predators. With the call of a pearl spotted owl sounding softly from the trees nearby, I eventually fell asleep and dreamt of great big buffalo bulls all gut shot and charging down on me while I battled to run away on rubber legs.

As the dawn broke, a Copper Tail Coucal called nearby with deep dooo, dooo, dooo, tones sounding like water being poured from a bottle. I lay in the warmth of my blanket listening to the calls, identifying the new sounds as the delta became alive with a myriad of birds.

Paul came from his tent as I was busy washing my face and informed me that he was going to Maun and would be back only the next day, and I should amuse myself while he and the driver were away. Without even waiting for breakfast he got into the Land Rover and sped of in a cloud of dust. I must say that I was not very sorry to see him go. The Copper tail Coucal had inspired me to spend some time observing the birdlife in the delta, and after a breakfast of hard rusks and coffee I took up the 6.5 Manlicher and a pair of binoculars, and the tracker and I strolled off into the forest chasing the various bird calls. The tracker, who's name was Watson, knew many of the species we encountered. There were shrikes, both the red breasted and the long tailed, tiny flycatchers all sitting in a row on a reed hanging over the channel, flocks of green pigeons in the wild fig trees and Meyer's Parrots clowning about in the branches of a dead Mopani tree. Near the water I spied a big Marabou Stork standing like an undertaker at a funeral. Iridescent sunbirds flitted about among the flowers of a lucky bean tree. We could hear the trumpeting calls of a group of Crowned Cranes not very far ahead of us signifying the proximity of a vlei not far off, and we walked towards the sound.

A deep gulley crossed our path, and as we entered it I saw that there was coarse washed sand in its bottom. There in the sand lay the impressions of a massive lion that had passed not one hour ago. The prints in the soft sand were shiny with newness, the edges crisp and defined. No sand had been blown onto them although there was a fair breeze blowing. Watson followed the spoor for a few paces and whistled softly to me. He was looking at a jumble of tracks overlaying the male's spoor.

"These are the tracks of a whole pride of lions see here the many juvenile spoor. It shows that there are cubs of varying ages with at least five lionesses in attendance. I am sure they are up ahead probably drinking at the pan in the vlei." He looked up at me as if to indicate that we should clear out sharp shoot.

I had the rifle with me and there were five rounds in the magazine with an extra five rounds in the breast pocket of my bush jacket. I certainly did not relish an encounter with a whole pride, so we retraced our steps back to camp. The vlei was about half a mile away and even that was too close for comfort. The trees were tall with thick smooth trunks, and would be impossible for me to climb even in the direst panic. I did the best I could and broke out the 378 Weatherby and twenty rounds of solid tipped ammunition and put it ready on the table while I sat in the camp chair nearby reading a book. We had plenty firewood, and the two black men stoked the fire while they put on a three legged pot of water for the day's porridge. That night we sat up at the fire till the early hours listening to the roars sounding as if they were at the very edge of our camp. I sat with my back against a tree trunk and eventually drifted off to sleep while the other two continued to sit at the fire putting logs on to keep the flames high.



Paul arrived back at camp about eleven the next morning, and I could smell on his breath that he had enjoyed a good night of partying. After eating a good lunch he retired to his tent and slept till early afternoon. At about two in the afternoon he emerged and called for the Land Rover, and after putting the two heavy rifles in their carry racks we made of into the bush. We skirted the dry gully and emerged into the vlei. The crested cranes were still there, and sure enough there was a large pan of clear water with a small beach of washed rough sand where the gully entered the pan. The lion spoor was plentiful and the tracker announced that it was a favorite drinking spot. Buffalo tracks were all over the lion spoor showing that they too favored the pan. The pan was empty of wild life, and we slowly drove around the edge and headed for a stand of forest on the other side. There we encountered a path which we followed. There was a big termite mound covered in dense shrubbery and two tall trees, and as we approached it we saw a leopard raise its head and quizzically peer at us. When we came too close for his comfort he bounded out followed by his mate which had been hiding in the short grass at the base of the mound. They had been mating when we disturbed them. We took the opposite tack and left them to their courtship.

As we drove through the forest there was a stand of scrubby Mopani stretching for about a mile. The Mopani scrub was about five feet high with here and there taller bits bushing out from base trunks that had been damaged by elephants but had then grown out again forming clusters of tall shoots. The tracker hissed and pointed and I stood up to see what he was pointing at, and saw eight buffalo bulls grazing about three hundred yards away. There was a nice young bull amongst them with a fair spread of horns. They were grazing leisurely and the wind was blowing from them in our direction.

We parked the Land Rover, and Paul took up the 416 Rigby while I took the .378 Weatherby, checking that the magazine was loaded with full jacketed solid cartridges. We started to stalk the group and with all the scrub we had plenty cover so that after a slow stalk we got to within about twenty yards from the group. The young bull was slightly behind another one, but they were grazing from our left to right, and I indicated to Paul to wait till he emerged and then to give him a shoulder shot. He knelt down and sighted, and I could see the bull come out ahead of the others to present a perfect shoulder shot. Paul continued to sight for what seemed an age.

When the shot sounded the whole group took flight straight for where we were crouched They had taken fright at the sound of the shot and came past us with the speed of a freight train I could of shot the young bull point blank as it passed me. Paul took fright and started to run towards where we had left the land Rover. The group of buffalo ran for about a hundred yards and stopped in a tight knot while one split off from the rest and made for some dense bush at the edge of the Mopani scrub. I concluded that it was wounded. The afternoon had progressed to about five o'clock, and soon the sun would be gone and the darkness would come suddenly as it does in the African bush. Paul returned to where we were standing, and I said that if we wanted to get the buff then we would have to take its spoor right away and dispatch it before the sun went down. This he refused and said that we should first get the Land Rover so that we could follow the animal with the vehicle nearby as a refuge in case of a charge. By the time the vehicle arrived the sun was already sinking towards the horizon and we got to the forest too late to further take up the spoor, and had to abandon the chase till the next morning.

With sunrise we were at the spot where we had left the spoor, and with the tracker and I leading along the spoor while Paul rode the vehicle behind us refusing to take a chance of facing a charge on foot. Twice we came on places where the buffalo had gone down, and where he had regained his feet and struggled on. The tracker carefully surveyed every dark spot in the bush before moving on along the spoor. Suddenly we saw movement ahead and he froze intently staring at the source of the movement. I saw a hyena scurrying away, and knew that the buffalo was dead and the hyenas were feeding on the carcass. Sure enough there lay what was left of the beast, and as it turned out it was an old bull with one broken off horn. Paul had again shot the wrong animal. Had we followed it we would have come up to it to find it already dead as the shot had penetrated right through the right side and the bullet had lodged in the left side shoulder. The hyenas had eaten the carcass and Paul was left with the head from which even the ears had been chewed off as a trophy for his hunting collection. What an anticlimax to his buffalo hunt!

At midday we broke up camp, and returned to Maun where we slept the night and the next morning took off for the return trip home. As we gained height I asked Paul to turn over the delta for a last look, and this he did flying over the spot where we had camped before making for home. That was my last view of the Okavango Delta, and the memory is firmly entrenched in my mind. It is one of the true jewels of Africa and a wonder of the natural world. I will always remember it as such and hope to one day visit it again.

Hunting Hazards.

Hunting in the African bush is fraught with hazards. Uncanny things happen, things that the hunter cannot plan for, that can seriously affect not only his hunt and the pleasure of his stay in nature, but also his very life.

If hunting were as easy as a walk in the park, many more folks would be doing it, and the bush would be full of hunters chasing after the few animals trying to escape their efforts. Many people go off to the gun dealers and buy the rifle which he recommends, and take off into the bush in their 4x4 vehicle, license in hand and with all the latest camping gear. All they need to do is come across the animals stated on his license, haul out his new rifle and let fly. They see themselves posing with one foot on the neck of their victim and holding the rifle in an appropriate pose with the camera clicking so that a framed print can hang in the den to show their friends what a Nimrod they really are, and how much testosterone flows in their system.

Of course posing like that with a lovely Impala ram does not have exactly the same impact as a buffalo or even a lion, and ultimately having the head mounted and fixed over the fireplace in the den would supply hours of conversation when the cronies come visiting. Then the host can show off the trophies, and all the photos, and he would grow in stature and be the admiration of all the beautiful damsels in his circle of acquaintances.

Two friends, one an Italian named Giovanni, the other a Jewish fellow named Maurice each acquired an elephant license and made ready to hunt their elephants in the Gwembe Valley of the Zambezi River. They came into the business premises of Boet Oberholser who repaired and sold used Land Rovers. It was a Friday afternoon, and a few of us were gathered there having some beers in anticipation of a leisurely week end.

Giovanni was tall and broad with a shock of dark curly hair. He was friendly and laughed easily, and could put away copious amounts of beer. Maurice almost had the shape of a ball, as round as he was tall, with short legs and a premature bald head. He was full of restless energy and had quick nervous movements.

"We each have an elephant license." Maurice stated while quaffing his beer and surveying the gathering.

"Oh yes." George Lyon said. "Where are you going to hunt them?" George worked for the Game department as a tsetse control officer, and knew all the hunting areas intimately.

"In the Gwembe." Maurice retorted. "Do you know the area?" He knew that George had worked in that area quite recently, and it was a stupid question.

"Do you two clowns know the elephants of the Gwembe?" George looked at Giovanni pointedly. "Even the old hunter, Selous said that the Gwembe elephants were the most vicious that he ever encountered. And I know from working there that they are even more so now than in his day, especially if you encounter cows with calves.

"We have not been hunting since yesterday only." Maurice said with disdain. "Also we each have an adequate rifle therefore I cannot see what could go wrong." George nodded his head and finished his beer. He stood up and said, "Good luck with the hunt, come and show us the tusks next Friday." He walked out the door to his Land Rover.

Monday morning Boet phoned me. "Did you hear about Giovanni and Maurice? They went hunting on Saturday, and Giovanni tells me Maurice is still in bed sick. Apparently they encountered a small herd of elephant with a good bull accompanying them. Maurice decided to take the shot, and when the bull presented a good side shot He let him have it in the ear hole, and the bull went down like a sack of potatoes. The rest of the herd, instead of running off started to mill around till they got the pair's scent and then they all charged the two hunters en masse. All they could do was to turn and run. Well, you know that a man cannot hope to outrun a charging elephant and they could see that the herd was gaining on them, and even the small calves had their trunks at full extension till the tips were sharp as needles reaching for the hated men.

Fortunately they encountered a deep donga crossing their path, and the two dived into it and ran up the other side. The herd came up to the deep ditch, and started to run up and down trying to find a way through, and that gave the two hunters enough time to get away. They had to come back the next day to cut out the tusks, and Maurice was so pale around the gills that he went straight to bed when they got back to town."

Who would have expected the whole herd to charge at once, and had that ditch not been there, the two companions would not have outrun the herd, and they would have been trampled to tiny bits and pieces.

Insects too pose a definite hazard to the hunter. I had taken the long week end of the Rhodes and Founders holiday to accompany Dick and Henry to the Zambezi Valley for a Buffalo hunt, and we were well equipped and raring to go. We entered the valley floor, and had hardly gone two miles when a massive Roan Antelope bull ran across our path. It ran for about two hundred paces and stopped, standing broadside on. Dick jumped out of the driver's side, and took a snap shot at the Roan. We could hear the thump of the bullet striking, and the Roan turned around and ran off at full speed. I saw it disappearing behind a large Baobab tree, and did not see it emerge from the other side. Taking up my 30-06 rifle I ran towards the tree, and there about twenty yards away lay the Roan, stone dead. I had run past the tree so fast that I had failed to notice a black man lying next to the massive trunk on his back. Having cut the animal's throat to bleed it out, I happened to glance at the tree and saw the man lying there. Walking over I saw that he had been robbing a bee's nest in the trunk of the Baobab tree, as he had leant a sturdy sapling diagonally against the trunk and had carefully cut steps into it. His small native axe was still embedded into the wood of the baobab, and the bees were working at the opening he had chopped in the trunk. It was obvious to us that the man had seen the hive in the trunk of the tree, possibly guided by a honey guide bird, and when he started to chop the opening to enlarge it, the bees had attacked him. Swatting the insects he had lost his footing, and fallen and broken his neck.

We all stood around the body contemplating it and discussing what we should do next. To go back to Lusaka for the police meant a drive of about one hundred miles, and then we would be obliged to bring them back to the scene. Arriving there, the cops were sure to implicate us in the poor man's demise, which meant that our weekend would be over and the hunt a wash out. And we would have to bring them to the scene at our own expense. No, that just would not do! We then decided to leave him right there and continue with the hunt. The Roan was loaded and we continued on our way.

Monday, after a good hunt we came back along the same path. Arriving near the spot where the Roan was shot we decided to leave the vehicle in the road and walk down to the Baobab. The corpse was gone. Drag marks showed where a lion had picked it up and carried it off to a dense bush where it had been devoured. Nothing was left, only a bundle of clothes, some assegais, and the axe stuck in the tree. I climbed the sapling, and shining the beam of my torch down the hole, I could see many honey combs hanging in the hollow trunk. Some were black with age, and the honey was dripping down the inside of the trunk.

I have always been good at robbing bees' nests, and after smoking the insects to make them dizzy, I continued to take out the honey. We filled two five gallon cans full of honey combs and leaving some behind to encourage them to stay at the nest we drove home. For that poor man his quest had definitely proved hazardous indeed.

During one hunt, north of the Zambezi, a place called Chakwengwa, we had set up camp in the late afternoon, and as usual had collected a huge heap of firewood, and built a merry fire. I was designated camp cook, and soon had a meal cooking. Well, I needed to put some wood on the fire, and grasping a fairly thick log I tossed it on the fire. There was a crack in the log, and my hand encircled the crack. As it left my hand I felt a painful sting on the side of my palm, and as the log hit the fire a small red scorpion scuttled out of the crack and fell into the glowing coals, sizzled, squirmed and died. My hand and arm burnt like the fire itself, and soon became numb. It was my first scorpion sting and I was soon feverish with my heart palpitating like mad. The pain shot up my right arm and into my shoulder, and I became dizzy and disorientated. I had to lie down on my bed, and the only medcine I had to take were some aspirin. I was out of action for the whole weekend and that sting put paid to my hunt. The third day I could get up and move around a bit in camp. I have been stung a number of times since, and every time the experience was less painful as if I had built up an immunity, but that first experience will always be inscribed in my memory, and I can recall it as if it happened yesterday.

Most of our hunts took place during the winter months. This made the insect problem less troublesome as the deadliest enemy, the mosquito, was less likely to bite. But there were mozzies around, and they did bite, and the chances were good that the one which bit would be the malaria carrier, the deadly Anopheles mosquito. Most hunters contracted malaria at one time, and that could be deadly serious. Many hunters have died as a result of this animal's bite, and often they only know they have the disease after having left the bush, and they do not even know where they were bitten.

Another insect pest is the Tsetse fly. A little larger than the normal house fly, and of a brown grey coloring this pest bites with grim determination. It is so fast that the natives say that when it alights on your arm and bites, when you react by striking it, it leaves your arm and bites you on the palm of the hand cocked to strike it. I cannot vouch for that one, but will say that it reacts faster than any other insect I know of. During my time in the bush these pests loved to bite me, and there was hardly a spot on my body where they had not bitten me. The bite itches and burns, and there is nothing that will stop that burn. It has to fade away normally. The down side of the tsetse bite is that the pests carry the dreaded sleeping sickness which if not treated promptly leads to a lingering death.



Another hazard a hunter faces but never thinks about is snake bite. I know of a case where a hunter was stalking some kudu, and had to pass through a stand of long grass, and as he brushed through the thick grass he was bitten on the thigh by a black mamba. The snake struck him twice almost on the same spot, and he staggered back to the edge of the grass and collapsed. Before his companions could get him back to camp he was dead. They had the anti venom in camp, but the man was already dead by the time they could get at it. He had died within twenty minutes of being bitten.

Often we would make our beds on the ground, and cutting some long grass as a mattress we would spread the blanket over it and then sleep on top with another blanket as covering. I know of a few cases where when the blankets were folded after a night's rest, a thick puff adder emerged, having spent the night in the warmth of the sleeper's body. I have never heard of one being bitten by the unwelcome bed mate, but the thought of sleeping with a deadly snake is quite enough.



On one hunt up in the north western section of Zambia where the trees are tall with leaves right at the very top, we were hunting the elusive yellow backed duiker, and moving cautiously through the forest with a thick carpet of dried leaves on the ground. Slowly stalking, carefully putting one foot forward at a time, I suddenly saw the leaves move right where I would place my foot. Something in my subconscious warned me, and I did an about turn in mid stride. There was a dreaded Gaboon Viper, wound up like a coiled spring, ready to strike.



The color pattern of that snake was so camouflaged that it was almost invisible among the browns and reds of the fallen leaves. It was a monster of about three feet long, and as thick as my calf. The head was as large as my fist, with fangs a good three inches long. Had it sunk those fangs into my leg I would have died of fright before the venom had time to take effect. In those days there was no anti venom available for this snake, and a bite would have proven fatal. I still turn cold with goose flesh when I think of that incident.

Many Native hunters go off into the bush and never return. The people in the villages do not go out to look for them as they know that a search would prove fruitless. There are just too many dangers confronting the lone hunter, and a disappearance is merely written off as being lost. Life in the village goes its normal course and the hunter is soon forgotten.

Lions In The Darkness.

When an American thinks of Africa, the first thought that comes to him has to do with lions. He imagines the cities with streets where lions prowl around, and most of them man eaters at that. The perception is that everyone has to carry a rifle just to defend him against these man eating lions that will attack at sight, and that everyone becomes adept at shooting lions in their back yards.

We travelled up to Mufulira from Johannesburg in 1945.Mufulira was one of the northernmost mining camps close to the border of the Belgian Congo, and had just recently been established. The camp was very neatly laid out, with lovely cool bungalow type houses for the mine staff, well laid out roads and beautiful gardens planted and maintained by the mine management. There were a few shops, a mine club which housed a dance hall and a cinema. Every last Saturday in the month a matinee film was shown for the kids and entrance was free. At the door we each received a packet of sweets and a cool drink I never missed a Saturday movie, and particularly liked the cowboy films, and would take up position in the front row, and we would boo the baddies, and cheer the good guys. The noise was deafening. Kids would run around, screaming and fighting. Forming their own groups they would attack each other and act out the movie as if they were part of the show. I shudder to think how the theatre staff ever hoped to keep control of the mob.

When we arrived at the camp it was well into the rainy season, and by four in the afternoon the rain would start to fall and continue well into the night. I can remember hearing the cries of wild dogs and the mournful howls of hyenas amid the flashing lightning and the pouring rain. Often we would hear of lion sightings by the truck drivers along the road to Ndola where all our provisions were obtained, and then some of the miners who knew all about hunting would be out after the prides. I never saw any shot, but heard the grown ups speaking about all the close encounters

Our next door neighbor was a tall blonde dashing man named Steve Barry. He was every ladies idea of the perfect heartthrob, tanned and muscular with a no nonsense attitude. He had two sons, Alfred and Ivan, both dark complexioned and slight of build with impeccable manners. In their back garden was a massive termite mound on which grew a few large trees, and one morning when Steve came out to drive to work at about four thirty, he found a big male leopard sitting on the mound, and contemplating the neighborhood dogs. Steve went back inside, collected his rifle and dispatched the cheeky leopard. I can remember viewing the carcass and thinking to myself what a beautiful soft animal the leopard was. When I lifted its lip however I could see a set of very formidable fangs. Those big round soft pussycat paws also concealed a set of powerful claws.

After three years in Mufulira we moved to Lusaka, the capital of Northern Rhodesia, and the main agricultural centre of the territory. My stepfather took up farming, and there I became exposed to the hunting fraternity, and all of the farmers had encountered lions. They were cattle raiders of note, and as our farm was near the Zambezi Valley, which was full of lions, we often heard of them in our vicinity. I had heard them roar in the early hours of the morning, and travelers on our farm road had chanced across one or two.

Our farm was located to the East of Lusaka along the Great East Road, which ran from Lusaka to Fort Jameson. It was a dirt road in those days, and ran through dense bush. One could almost say that the countryside was jungle, but it was not so in the real sense of the word, but tall trees and thick scrub lined both sides of the road and there were no fences at all. Our district was known as Chalimbana, and a few miles further on along the road was the Rufunsa district. Rufunsa was a small administrative centre set just off the main road at the start of a range of steep hills. The main road ran over the hills and there were a number of very long steep inclines to be negotiated. In the late forties and early fifties there was a main contractor with the government plying the road to Fort Jameson transporting all the provisions from the railway line at Lusaka across some three hundred miles of dirt road; the carrier was named Thatcher and Hobson, and they used huge Leyland Diesel trucks carrying some thirty tons each, and pulling a ten ton trailer along behind. The trucks would proceed to Fort Jameson carrying building materials, machinery, soft goods, and all other goods required by the community in the eastern districts, and would return with agricultural products such as maize and tobacco bound for the markets in Lusaka.

About fifty miles from Lusaka they would encounter a series of steep hills, and often the truck would break down with clutch or gearbox troubles. The driver and his assistant would then stop the truck, and after putting some large boulders behind the wheels to prevent it rolling down the hill, they would make camp next to the road while they waited for another truck to pass and they send word via him to their depot for mechanical assistance. They would then wait next to their fire until a tow truck arrived to tow them in to Lusaka.

Late one afternoon a truck broke down at the spot and the two men secured it and went of to the campsite to prepare the evening meal and get ready for the night vigil. The driver lacked a bit of courage and decided to sleep in the cab of his truck. He slept soundly, and awoke with the sunrise and sauntered over to the fire where his assistant had bedded down in order to get a warm cup of coffee. The assistant was nowhere to be seen, and soon the driver came across a boot lying some distance from the fire. When he picked up the boot he found to his horror that there was a foot in it. Lions had arrived in the night and taken the assistant without the driver even awakening, and had feasted on his carcass not twenty feet away without him even being aware of his assistant's plight.


Another time a truck broke down at the same place, and the two men also made camp around the fire, and when night fell the driver also decided to sleep in the truck, but the assistant bedded down under the trailer. They had lost the hitch pin attaching the trailer, and had substituted a long piece of steel shafting which protruded way past the bottom of the tow hitch. During the early hours of the morning a pride of lions arrived at the truck and noticed the man sleeping under the trailer. With a mighty roar the lion flew in under the trailer intent on attack. The poor man crawled from his blankets forward under the truck and took up hiding behind the rear differential and the lion dashed forward after him and struck its head a crashing blow on the protruding hitch pin which brained him. The assistant scrambled into the truck cab, and there the two waited until the sun was high before emerging. The lion was dead and already stiff by that time, and after skinning it they tied the folded hide to the bonnet of the truck, got it going and departed post haste for Lusaka. Hunters were sent out to Rufunsa to shoot the lions, but they never caught up to them, and after the road was tarred, the steep rises were eliminated so that trucks never broke down on that stretch of road again. And the lions disappeared never to be heard of again.

In the early days lions did get into the town streets however, and they were always quite a threat. Broken Hill was a small mining town some eighty miles north of Lusaka, and one day four male lions entered the town and caught a donkey in the main street. They were promptly dispatched by one of the local hunters. In Lusaka too, while they were busy constructing the railway station a pride of lions harassed the workers and had to be eliminated before work could continue.

The farm we lived on was named Rooiwal which means Red Banks because of high red clay cliff like banks on the Chalimbana River which flowed on the border of the farm. The farm workers would walk around searching for honey and wild fruits, and they often told us that they saw lions there in the thick bush, but we discounted their stories as imagination, until one day while hunting wild pigs I happened to be on the top of the banks when I saw a large lioness drinking at the river. All I had with me was a .22 rim fire rifle, and I dared not try a shot at such an animal so that I made for the house as fast as my feet could carry me.

The bush around our farm was full of lions, and it was good to be camped next to the Mwapula River and hear their roar at night around the camp fire. They were also not the fat lazy circus type of lions, rather they were lean mean and super alert, and would not hesitate to attack a person sleeping in the camp.

A neighbor of ours, Kannetjie Davel and his brother Robbie went hunting in the Southern Luangwa valley, and while they were in camp sleeping a male lion came into camp and attacked one of the workers jumping onto him while he was wrapped in his blankets. Robbie had to run up to the lion and shoot it on top of the man. They were compelled to motor miles through the bush to a mission hospital to have his wounds treated. The man was half dead from shock as well as from the mauling the lion had given him.

Another friend of ours, named Boet Greeff, had moved into his wattle and daub house on his marriage night. The house had no window glass, only openings where curtains were hung, and while the couple was sleeping a bushbuck jumped through the window pursued by a lioness and took refuge under the couple's bed. Boet always slept with a loaded rifle next to his bed, and in the moonlight he shot the lioness and cut the bushbuck's throat, so that they then had a lion skin to use as a rug next to the bed, and had plenty bushbuck meat in the meat safe.

Oom Tom Ferreira told us the story of a hunting trip he took together with his brother in law Ewart Nel into the Zambezi valley. They had travelled down with Tom's light truck, and on the way while crossing a dry stream bed they shot a young male lion. When they reached the valley they picked up some men of the Tonga tribe to accompany them to the river which was not far off, to assist with the camp chores and also to act as trackers and skinners. The usual arrangement was that they would work for a share of the meat, which they would smoke over a slow fire, and if the hunting was good each man's share would be quite substantial. These Tongas however, as told by the hunter F.C.Selous, were the dregs of humanity; dirty, sly, thieving, totally ungrateful and definitely not to be trusted. The day before Tom and Ewart were ready to leave for home the three men came to them and demanded money as payment in addition to the piles of meat they had been allocated.


Well that night Oom Tom said to Ewart that they would have to make some plan with these scallywags as they had only enough money for fuel to get them home, and if they still had to ferry the three back to the village they would be sure to make trouble for the two white men.

That night when the three were snugly rolled into their blankets Oom Tom took an empty four gallon tin can and wrapping himself in the lion skin he climbed a crooked tree which reached almost over the three sleeping wretches. Oom Tom let out a few loud roars into the tin which reverberated as if all the demons were let loose. One of the three awoke and sat up, and Oom Tom let out another roar. The man was still half asleep but he shook the other two awake. Then Oom Tom let out a mighty roar and shook the tree. The three looked up to see this apparition with the mane flying, and they took off towards the river. Next morning Oom Tom walked down to the sand bank where he saw their tracks. They had run so fast down the river bank that their footprints were nine feet apart, their courage had totally departed and they were not seen again. Oom Tom and Ewart packed up their truck and headed home laughing all the way.

Lions in the darkness have been an integral part of Africa, and have caused havoc amongst the human population on many occasions but today things are more civilized, and we need not walk around with our rifles expecting to see a lion around every corner. However there are many lions being bred on game farms, so the population is increasing, and in the future there may still be happenings which will bring to our notice that the lion is truly the king of the beasts.

Enter Dick And Henry

He came into my office, a big man, broad shouldered and tall with a fleshy face and dark straight hair brushed back from the forehead. He had slightly protruding eyes, and a congenial smile.

"I am looking for a job. I hear you need a diesel mechanic. I have all the experience you need." He was not just saying something; rather he was making a statement. He looked at me as if he already had the job.

"Sit down. When can you start?" I looked at him; he was dressed in a khaki green shirt and a brown pair of shorts, long socks and tan loafer shoes. Neat and clean. "Would you like some coffee?" I called the tea girl and ordered two cups of coffee. "Tell me about yourself, starting with your name."

"My name is Dick Combrinck, and I did my time as a diesel mechanic with the Public Works Department. I have worked for them for the past ten years, and I feel that I can do with a change."

I had taken a job with an agricultural implements company in Lusaka. The firm catered for the small subsistence farmer, and supplied mainly ox drawn implements. By the time I joined they were selling tractors on a sub agency basis from the Massey Ferguson dealers, and were making very little commission in the process. It had been decided that we would find our own agency, and as fate would have it the very next week a tall gent with an American accent walked into my office and promptly offered us the John Deere agency. I hurried him into the managing Director's office, and soon we had the agency signed up. Orders were placed for a range of tractors, and we also ordered a mechanical cotton picker for a large cotton scheme in the country.

It was June, and the farmers were in the throws of the maize harvest, which was very good that year and tractors were very much in demand. Sales boomed, and we found that we needed an extra man who could handle tools desperately. I had been promoted to workshops manager, and now I had to employ another mechanic. That was when Dick walked into my office.

The cotton picker had arrived, dismantled and in six large timber crates. They were stacked in the back yard one on top of the other. Not only were they in the way, but we were afraid that if the engineers from the J.D. Company did not arrive soon enough the rains would come and the cotton growers would wait till the next harvest before buying and paying for the expensive equipment. Dick was duly employed and we started to clear the backlog of jobs in the workshops. We worked together on the various projects, and within weeks they were all cleared out. The awaited J.D. engineers had not yet arrived.

"Let us try to assemble this monster." I told Dick, "We can pack all the bits and pieces on the ground, and using the manuals we can assemble it piece by piece. The next day we started and soon the cement yard was littered with pieces like a massive jigsaw puzzle. Taking up the manual we started on the assembly. Bit by bit it came together, and soon all we had to do was mount it on the tractor which had arrived to take the unit. This was done, and the machine was parked, and when the two engineers arrived all they needed to do was to adjust the timing of the machine. They were astounded that we could assemble the machine as fast as we did and without a glitch. Little did they know the sweat blood and tears we had shed in the process. Dick and I discovered each other during this time and what is more we found we had a passion for the same thing: The bush and the hunt. The Boss was so impressed that he gave us an extra long weekend. We decided to go hunting.

I pitched up at Dick's home the next morning in the old Land Rover, and found him waiting with all his camping equipment ready. With him was a weird looking character whom Dick introduced as Henry van Heerden. The minute I clapped eyes on him I immediately thought of Tweedle Dee. Henry was dressed in khaki shorts and shirt. The shorts were two sizes too big, and his legs protruded from them like those of a Maribu Stork, he wore a pair of calf high boots with buckles at their tops that clinked when he walked. His head was large and round with thin sandy hair, and he had an apple shaped body. Henry had an engaging smile and pale blue eyes. His handshake was firm and brief. "Dick asked me to accompany you on this trip, I hope you don't mind." He said while looking at me expectantly.

"Plenty room," I replied, a little unenthusiastically. "I have a trailer which we can collect if needed. But I think we will get it all into the Landie." We loaded up the equipment and soon set off with Henry sitting in the middle and Dick next to the window. I did the driving.

The minute we passed the town limits Dick reached into his suitcase behind him and came out with a bottle of Limousine brandy, and breaking the seal he took a long swallow. "Care for a toot?" He said, passing me the bottle. I took a small swig and the tears came rolling out of my eyes. It was real rotgut stuff. I passed it back to Henry, but he declined and passed it back to Dick who took another long swallow. After that, the bottle stayed with him, and every now and again he would lift it and pull at what was left.

"I want to take you to the Luano Valley." Dick said. "Instead of turning off to the Zambezi, carry straight on along the Great East Road till you come to mile 54, and then wake me up if I happen to be asleep."

We ran at a steady pace along the Great East Road, which was all gravel and quite corrugated. The dust flew in whirls behind us and the interior was soon chokingly full of dust. We had to stop and roll up the canvas sides to let the air in, and then we resumed the journey. No sooner had we started when I heard snoring coming from Dick. The bottle was half empty, and he held it between his feet as if he were afraid it might break.

One and a half hours later we arrived at the mile 54 marker, and I brought the vehicle to a halt Dick awoke with a start, and said,"Carry on till you get to the graded water run off to the left" About two hundred yards further we came to the run off ditch. "Turn in here," Dick indicated a left turn, and I took the Land Rover into the ditch and carried on along its curve. A little way beyond the end of the drainage ditch a track suddenly appeared, and we continued along it.

After about ten minutes Dick stopped me and got out walking into the bush a way in order to attend to a call of nature. When he got back to the vehicle he brought out his rifle stashed behind the seat. "We must be alert now, these hills are full of Kudu, and also Roan Antelope" He sat with the rifle leaning against the seat between Henry and himself

After about ten miles we arrived at a barrier across the road, and a black man in the uniform of the tsetse control stopped us. Dick got out and handed the man a packet of cigarettes He took a clipboard from him and started to fill in our vehicle details while the guard walked around it with a small net in his hand looking for possible tsetse flies. He then lifted the pole barrier, and we resumed our trek. After almost nine miles we came to the edge of the escarpment. The descent was appallingly steep and rocky, dropping about one thousand feet within a mile to the floor of the valley. At the bottom of the descent the road leveled out into the valley with stands of Mopani and raisin bush alternating with open savanna patches .The tracks became sandy but quite hard, and the going was smooth and easy. We picked up a bit of speed, and cruising around a wide bend we almost ran smack into a massive old buffalo bull. He shook his head and ran about twenty paces into the open bush and turned around facing us with his horns back towards his shoulders. The Land Rover came to a sliding halt and Dick hopped out of the cab and took aim over the hood. The rifle lifted as he squeezed the trigger, and the buffalo staggered back and turned to run off, but it was sorely stricken and it staggered and went down onto its chest. A long bellow erupted from his throat and its head flopped forward.

"Our camp spot is not very far from here," Dick said as he cut the bull's throat to bleed it, "I suggest we hasten to it and off load and then we can come back for this fellow."


Within fifteen minutes we arrived at the campsite next to the Muapula River. There were tall shady trees, and I could see that it was a favorite site because the grass had been cut and a place cleaned for the fire with the normal ring of boulders forming the fire pit. We offloaded the vehicle and stowed everything onto the ground next to the fire pit. As soon as that task was accomplished we set off for the Buffalo carcass. Arriving at the spot I took the Landie right up to the carcass, and we all alighted and started to inspect the beast. It was an old bull, and quite unsuitable for biltong, and his roasts would be like carving a block of hardwood, but it would be good for rations for the farm laborers who would eat anything, and we decided to quarter the carcass right there and transport it to the camp where we would skin out the quarters. The bull had a nice spread of horn, and Dick decided that he would take the horns home with him.

Back at camp Dick took over and within a few minutes I could see that he knew how to organize a camp. A long sapling was cut and positioned horizontally between two trees and the tarpaulin was thrown over and suspended like an awning and pulled tight with a large section let down the back against which our bedrolls were set so that our heads were against the canvas and the Landie parked on the other side so that no predators could surprise us from that side.

While Dick arranged the rest of the camp, Henry and I skinned out the quarters of the old buff. The skin over the neck and withers was so thick that I needed to sharpen my knife at least three times before it was finished. We cut the quarters into more manageable pieces and suspended them from low branches out of the reach of lions and hyenas. The bits of hide were discarded about fifty paces from the camp, and as the sun was setting we started to break out the rations for supper. Dick had built a friendly fire in the pit, and I started to heat some meatballs which my Wife had packed for the trip, and a pot of Putu (a crumbly maize porridge) was soon cooking in the three legged pot.

Henry had saved the bull's testicles complete with the scrotum, and these he skinned out leaving the bag intact, then he split each ball and washed them out nicely in the stream after which he salted them and put them onto the grid so that they were barbequed to a fragrant brown turn. The scrotum he took and pulled it over an empty beer bottle hair side out. He tied it off at the top and put it into a fork of the tree under which we were camped. After eating and washing the dishes in the stream we sat and talked over a scotch for Henry and myself, and the balance of the brandy for Dick.

When Dick's bottle was empty he tossed it over his shoulder towards the rubbish pit, and stood up, stretched, yawned and walked over to his bedroll and promptly went to sleep. Henry and I looked at each other and decided it would be best to join him. I lay awake listening to the far off call of a jackal, and the chirrup of the Scops owl, and soon I was fast asleep. The moon was full and high in the sky and lit up the camp and the surrounding bush in a silver eerie light.

I woke with a start. There was a rattling of dishpans and pots. I took up my spotlight which I kept next to my bed, and directed the beam to where the dishes were stacked. An enormous hyena stood and flashed his large round green eyes at the light, and then he took off at a leisurely gallop, his bristly tail held over his back. I switched off the light and settled back into my blankets, and hardly fell asleep when the din repeated itself and in the beam of my light there it stood again. I stood up and taking up a piece of wood from the fire I sent it in an arc of sparks toward the creature. With a whoop he turned and galloped off Just before dawn it was back again snuffling at the place where we had skinned the buffalo quarters. I awoke and sent another stick after him, and as the sky was turning grey in the east I put on the coffee pot and went down to the stream to wash my face and brush my teeth.

"What a pest that hyena was during the night." Henry lamented. "I hardly slept at all We should of shot the beast!"

"No, Henry," Dick said, "They are pests around the camp, but at least they will tell you if Lions are around by their nervous cackle, and they will not attack you if there are a few persons in camp." Tonight we will put some innards of whatever we shoot some distance from the camp to keep them busy."

As we drew some distance from the camp I noticed that the hyenas had dragged the neck skin of the buffalo into the open, and had chewed away the edges, but the thick skin was too much, and they had left it out in the open.. We had stripped the Landie of the doors, the tailgate, and the windscreen, to eliminate rattles, and so that the screen could not flash light into the bush and thus frighten the game. Dick was driving, and Henry was seated next to him with me on the outside. We were travelling through the bush when we passed a wide open space with a dry tree at the edge. There were a few vultures perched on the dry branches. As we drew near we could see that the birds were intently watching something on the ground. We came up to the tree and saw a large termite mound a few paces off, and in front of the mound, there were the remains of buffalo carcass, but there was nothing else to be seen. As we drew closer the vultures took of with a flapping of their wings, and Dick stopped the Landie under the tree. I stepped out of the vehicle and walked over to the remains to study the ground for tracks. Henry walked up the side of the mound. It was covered with short knee high grass, and as Henry stepped into the grass a lioness flew down the opposite side of the mound with a mighty roar, and Henry ran back to the vehicle in a few bounds. It all happened so fast that although I had my rifle in my hands I could not even sight it on the lioness. Henry of course was speechless with fright.



About a mile ahead we saw a herd of kudu, and I dropped a young bull. We loaded him into the vehicle and continued on our way. Passing through a dambo two reedbuck rams ran off and stopped about a hundred paces from us. Henry took up my light rifle, a .222 Sako, and when the shot rang out one buck fell as if pole axed.



All the way back to camp Dick derided Henry for his near miss with the lioness, and by the time we reached camp Henry was quite annoyed at all the banter. Before we rode into camp Dick stopped at the piece of buffalo hide which was already quite dry and curling at the edges. "Pick it up and throw it in the back, and tonight we will set a trap for the hyena." Was all Dick would say. I picked up the drying bit of hide and threw it into the back of the vehicle.



We drove into camp and stopped at our skinning spot where we offloaded the two antelope, and while Henry and I started to skin them I saw Dick take the buffalo hide and walking about thirty paces from the camp he started to cut the hide, and then he came back for a pick and dug a hole some twenty four inches in diameter and the same depth. By the time we had hung the carcasses, He came over and gripping the innards, minus the livers and kidneys, and walked over to the hole where he deposited the guts. Next he took the hide and fitted it over the hole, and it fitted with about a foot overlapping the hole all around. Then he cut a few holes around the edge, with a small hole in the centre From the centre hole he slit the skin about six inches diagonally over the hole making four cuts. Next he fashioned a few stout pegs out of some hardwood and fastened these through the holes at the edge of the hide. The hide was thus stretched over the hole containing the innards, wit the small hole and the diagonal slits right over the contents.



That night the hyenas did not come, and Dick said that they were probably finishing off the remains of the carcass which the lions had left, and we slept in peace. The next day we spent in camp cutting biltong and hanging the strips out to dry. It was hard work and after we had washed up in the steam we sat and had a leisurely drink and I prepared a hunter's pot and sawed some marrow bones which also went into the pot. Before we retired to bed I took the torch and walked over to the trap and inspected it. The edges around the hole were hard and were curling in towards the hole. I could also smell the ripe smell of the guts inside the hole.


We were still sitting around the fire with a whiskey each when we heard the patter of feet on the skin, and I shone the spotlight onto the hide. The Hyena was there with its head down the hole, and it was busy trying to gobble up the intestines down the hole. We could see that the skin had gripped it behind the ears, and stuck fast. It stood with its head down and its behind in the air Henry got up and walked over to our woodpile where he selected a stout stick, and walked over to the hyena. "You damned animal." He growled. "Tonight I will teach you a lesson for keeping me from my well deserved rest." Positioning himself behind the hyena he fetched it a mighty swipe on the behind, and came round for another shot. The hyena let out a loud wail, and Henry smacked it a third blow. Up went its tail, and it vented its bowels all over poor Henry. He was taken utterly by surprise, and turned around and dragged himself to the fire.

"Get away! Get away!" We yelled at him. All he could do was to pick up his suitcase and walk over to the stream. Then we heard him splashing as he washed off in the cold water. When he emerged he took his soiled clothes and put them on the fire with a totally disgusted look on his face. Then we heard a commotion and the hyena ripped the hide from the pegs and we could hear it falling over its feet as it disappeared into the bush, the piece of buffalo hide flapping like a sail around its neck. The last we saw of it, it was headed away still clutching the guts in its mouth.

The next day we headed for home, but every now and again Dick would sniff and say, "What smells like hyena shit?" Eventually Henry got fed up "Ag Dick, can it! How was I to know the thing would shit on me?" I don't suppose it ever again entered his mind to give a troublesome Hyena a whacking.

Days Of Schooling. 2.

The Land Rover pulled into the farmyard, and we proceeded right to the big thatched shed where we offloaded the kudu carcass, and hung it on the slaughter pole next to the shed by its hind legs. We stowed the four tusks in a corner of the shed and covered them over with a pile of empty potato pockets. While Edward started to skin the kudu, I took the Land Rover and trailer to the pump and started to clean them washing off the blood and dust. I opened the hood and hosed down the engine and cleaned it thoroughly to make sure that no buffalo beans were stuck in some crevice to blast us when we least expected it.

Buffalo beans are the bane of a hunter's life, and the Zambezi valley was full of them. Every donga and river bed was full of this menace. These beans climb up the elephant grass and scrubby shoots always in the way of the hunter when he is creeping through the bush stalking his prey. They hang in clusters on their vines, short stubby beans almost the shape of a broad bean, and they are covered in tiny hairs which have a barb at the end. As soon as the grass stem is disturbed, a cloud of tiny hairs descend on the unsuspecting hunter and are deposited on his skin and down his neck, and soon as he starts to sweat they start to itch. Itch? No, it is a torture devised by the Devil himself. Scratching the itch only makes it worse, far worse. All sorts of remedies have been tried, calamine lotion, petrol, mud, old engine oil, and a few pharmaceutical concoctions, but none of them work. All the hunter can do is grit his teeth and wait for the burning itch to go away, and be aware of the danger for the next trip and be wider awake.

On one trip to the Valley I had two young novices with me. One was a young Italian friend named Luciano Bertonotti, and the other an English speaker named John Weinand. Luciano had a new series two Land Rover fitted with a canvas top stretched over a pipe frame. What they lacked in experience they made up for in enthusiasm. I can say that they approached the hunting scene like a bull at a gate.

We had removed the canvas top, but retained the pipe frame, and after making camp the two hunters were keen to get at the animals roaming the valley. Each wanted to bring home a buffalo bull, and each had the vision of an enormous buffalo head mounted over the bar in the den. They had new rifles of the best calibers, and had worked up their eager enthusiasm by reading articles in the men's magazines, and listening to accounts by their friends who had, or claimed to have had, experience of buffalo hunts. Consequently they were raring to go, and this was the first morning actually on the hunt. We left camp and drove along the left bank of the river; the going was easy, as the grass was quite short, and it was easy to see where we were going. Then we came across a donga running across our path into the river bank. The bottom of the ravine was full of elephant grass I was sitting at the back of the vehicle, and as we approached the donga I stood up to be able to see over the windscreen which was still erect. I had told them to remove the screen, but they knew better, and left it up. As we travelled, the windscreen caused a turbulence which sucked in all the dust thrown up by the vehicle's wheels, which was most unpleasant, and with me sitting at the back, I got the worst of it.


Here we were then ready to enter the donga, and I could see masses of buffalo beans on almost every stalk of grass. My shout of warning was lost in the urgency to crash through the donga and get to its opposite bank, and the vehicle rushed through the long grass scattering buffalo bean pods all over the place. When we reached the level ground again I was sitting on top of the frame and shouting to them, "Watch out, buffalo beans!" Too late we were through them and John turned to me and asked: "What are Buffalo Beans?" Two minutes later they found out. Luciano had stepped out of the vehicle and was starting to scratch his crotch inside his shorts, and John was scratching his neck. I also started to itch, and it grew into a burning intensity that became quite unbearable. The Zambezi River was about thirty paces to our left, and a large sand bank stretched into the water "Lets wash it off!" John shouted, and both ran for the water as if a swarm of hornets was chasing them. Diving into the shallow water they pulled off their clothes and started to rub the coarse sand over their bodies. Of course this only intensified the problem, and I ran up to them shouting for them to beware the crocodiles. They were sitting with the water reaching up to their necks, and howling at the itch.

"Stuff the crocodiles!" Luciano shouted, "At least if they catch us this burning will stop." He redoubled his efforts at rubbing the wet sand over his inflamed skin. In the meantime I rinsed their shorts in the shallows while keeping my rifle at close quarters.

"Here, put on your shorts and let us rinse out the Landie, or we will get another infestation of the pest when we carry on." They happily complied with that suggestion, and the bucket was filled and splashed over the vehicle a number of times till we decided that no more stinging barbs were present.

You can be sure that those two hunters would make sure that they proceed very carefully when they suspect the presence of Buffalo beans in their future hunting excursions.

The following day I went into town with the four tusks to my Greek contact to see if I could convert them into solid cash, and found him out. While waiting outside his premises an acquaintance, a certain Swanepoel, whom I knew as a hunter in the business of taking rich clients on hunting trips also parked outside the shop waiting for Raftopolous to arrive, and we started talking. It transpired that he had taken out an American, a medical doctor, and they had bagged an Elephant with two very small tusks, and he was hoping to buy something better for his client who was most disappointed at his bag. He could see the point of one of my tusks peeping out from the canvass cover, and asked me if I would be prepared to sell them to his client if they were a decent size.

"I have two pairs here, the one pair weighs ninety two pounds, and ninety four pounds each, but for them I want a lot of money as they are a perfectly matched pair." I casually flipped the canvas cover aside so that he could see the tusks. I could see his eyes bugging and he almost drooled all over the back of my vehicle.

"Follow me to the Ridgeway hotel, and I will let my client view them, and maybe we can give you a bit of a better price than the Greek would offer." He tried to sound a casual as possible.

I followed him to the parking lot of the hotel, and he virtually sprinted in to the foyer. I decided that I would accept at least double the price that they offered, and soon the two came hurrying out. I had turned the Landie around as if I was ready to pull out of the hotel grounds, and Swanepoel came running towards me as if I was ready to depart with his wife. I switched off the engine and waited for them to catch up to me.

As the client reached the back of the Land Rover Swanepoel flipped the canvas to one side exposing the pair of Elephant tusks, and while his client was examining them he came round to me and with a flip of his hand as if dismissing a fly, he said. "We are prepared to offer you one thousand American dollars in cash, which is double what you would get from the Greek."

"You must be joking." I retorted, and walked back to the rear and flipped the canvas back over the tusks. "For these magnificent specimens I want twelve thousand American Dollars. Your client is not the only one who will buy them. In fact I know of an English count who also did not bag a good pair, and he will beat any offer your client can make; but thanks for the offer anyway." I extracted my keys from my pocket and rattled them while sauntering around to the driver's side. Swanepoel opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of the water, and the American ran around to my window.

"Wait, wait." He took hold of my elbow. "We can work out a trade." He sounded very anxious.

"What sort of trade do you have in mind?" I looked as if I was looking through him.

"Well we have the tusks from the elephant that I shot, and I will give you ten thousand Dollars for your pair." He stared fixedly at Swanepoel.

"If the tusks you have are as bad as I think they are, then the Game Department will confiscate them as being undersize, and I will lose out anyway. No thank you very much." I again started the motor.

"I can only give ten thousand dollars cash." He said. "That is all I have here in travelers cheques. But I have a new rifle, a Weatherby Magnum in the .458 caliber which I will be prepared to add to the deal with one hundred rounds of ammunition. It is in a tooled leather case, and I will include an ammunition belt also in tooled leather."

"Right, bring out the goods, and the cheques, and if the rifle is as good as you say then we may do a deal." They ran back into the hotel and soon they emerged carrying the goods.

I could not believe my eyes. The tooled leather gun case was exquisite with carved scenes of Horses and Cowboys in relief, and lined in green baize. The belt was tooled harness back leather with leather loops to hold the cartridges. When I examined the rifle, my heart skipped a beat. It had a deep blue heavy barrel, and a glossy walnut stock, and looked as if it had just left the dealer's store.

"You will have to give me a bill of sale for this rifle." I told the doctor, "Let's go fetch your pair of tusks and offload this pair, and then the deal is done." I stowed the rifle lovingly on the front seat of the Landie, and set off after Swanepoel and his client to Swanepoel's office and storeroom where I deposited the tusks, and collected my bill of sale. From there I sped to the Police station where I saw an a friend of mine, Pat Murray, who added the rifle to my arms license without even asking one question. Even if I live to be one hundred years of age I will never again do such a sweet deal as I did that day.

My bush schooling was being shaped and polished, and I learnt not to give away my hard earned lucre. Although the poaching was starting to really pay off, I could not live with my conscience, and decided that although I was addicted to the chase, and loved the bush, indiscriminate hunting of elephants was not for me, and I should do something to rectify the matter, but what? I had to wrack my brains for an equitable solution. But that is another story.

Days Of Schooling 1.

The mournful cu cucu…cu… cu ..cucucucu… cucucucucucucu… call of the emerald spotted dove drifted on the slight breeze blowing over a stiflingly hot valley. It was late August, and the sun beat down on the bonnet of my old Land Rover like someone beating a rhythm with a four pound hammer on an anvil. The needle on the heat gauge had passed the "normal" mark, and was creeping into the red of the hot section on the dial. I had cleaned out the radiator and filled it with fresh rain water to make sure that no mineral deposits were present. I also knew that one did not boil a Landie's engine because the aluminum cylinder head would warp and then the engine would be good for nothing. I decided to move the vehicle into the shade of a large sausage tree so that it could cool off a bit, and it would give me an hour or so to have a sandwich and some cold tea out of my Thermos flask.

Moving onto the passenger seat, I lay back and put my feet up onto the windscreen rail, opened my sandwich tin and poured a cup of ice cold lemon tea. Munching the bread I listened to the call of the emerald spotted dove. It sounded far away and extremely mournful, as if he was mourning a death in the family. I remembered the story old Kapatula had told about the call of this dove.

"When you hear his call, you must know that he is calling to his lost love, and asking her to leave the male that stole her away and come back. You only hear the call of the male, because his female is ashamed of her conduct and is reluctant to leave the loving she has received from the new lover." He looked up to the sky and continued, "He sounds so far away, but in truth he is very near and can send his cry far into the woodlands for his lost love to be able to hear him. Yes, the denizens of the forest can project their calls over many miles to communicate with others of their own tribe.

Take the Hyena as an example; you hear his cry of "hauwee" rising and falling in pitch, and if you listen intently an answer will come from very far off. How does he achieve such distance in his call? Well he puts his nose close to the ground, and lets out the howl using the ground as a sounding board, and the sound is projected far away where the other hyenas can get the message that meat has been found, and they reply in similar fashion telling the caller they are on their way. He then continues to call, and the other members of the tribe are guided accurately to where the original caller waits next to the kill calling and guiding them in."

"It is the same with the elephants," old Kapatula said, "they let out a low rumble and the sound is transferred by the ground, vibrating for miles, and picked up by the feet of others very far off. If you stand still, and you do not have shoes on, you can feel the sound waves. But you must concentrate, otherwise you will not feel anything, and because the herd is so far away you will not even know that they are there."


I was on my way to Chief Chiawa's village to pick up Edward who had taken some leave of absence and gone home to his village. I had been fired from my job as the head mechanic in old Galaun's workshop, and when he let me go he had chased me off without pay, and I was flat broke. Something had to be done.

Galaun was a real dour fellow, with a confrontational attitude. He was an astute businessman, and had a number of businesses dotted around the countryside. I worked in his workshop repairing and servicing his fleet of crawler tractors which he used in the Kariba valley to clear land for the fishing industry which would be established once the dam wall was built, and the waters started to push back into the valley.

The method of clearing the immense trees was to have a massive iron ball linked to a thick chain, and to the draw pins of two D7 Caterpillar crawlers which would head parallel to each other through the bush pulverizing everything in their path. As the ball rolled and gathered momentum the trees were simply swept aside and uprooted in wide swaths. Two other crawlers operated behind pushing the fallen trees into windrows piling the logs upon each other in a great pile of broken branches and trunks about ten feet high .The long windrow was then left till the dry season, and when dry enough was ignited and left to burn out. To my mind it was a wasteful method of land clearing, because there were many trees with useful timber which went to waste with the burning. But time was of the essence, and they could not be salvaged. The bush clearing operation took place mainly in the rainy season for then the ground was soft and the shallow rooted trees came out easily.

The snag was that any breakdown had to be repaired in the field, and in the Zambezi valley when it rains, it rains incessantly, sometimes for days without stopping. That was when old man Galaun would send me in to pull a broken track roller or idler, more often than not in the early hours of the morning; so that his machine could not stop working and he lose the hourly rate when the machine was standing. I would have to pull the track lying on my back under a machine jacked up with a bottle jack that could move away and allow the fourteen tons to come down on me while I worked in the mud and the slush, hammering out the pins and bushes using a hammer and steel punch.

This particular Monday morning I failed to turn up for work as I had been out in the rurals buying some cattle, and I had a blowout of the rear wheel on my way there, and on my way back the front wheel picked up a sickle thorn and went flat. Without another spare I had to pull the inner tube and repair the hole by applying a patch. Well, I had no tyre levers, and had to get the tyre off the rim by using two large screw drivers. This took most of the afternoon, and I was obliged to sleep over to get the wheel fixed and put on the next morning. The sun was near its zenith by the time I got going towards home, and it was late afternoon by the time I pulled into the city. It was too late to go to work, and the next morning old Galaun, in a rage, fired me and there I was flat broke. So some thing had to be done, and soon.

I remembered the pair of elephant tusks that I had sold to Raftopaulos, and thought that it was an easy way to pick up some cash for a bit of a nest egg while trying for a new job which I was certain would not take me long to find. I decided to head back into the Zambezi valley, find Edward and see what elephants I could poach. Raftopaulos did not ask too many questions, and my lack of the necessary permits was no obstacle.


There I was then, listening to the mournful call of the emerald spotted dove, and contemplating the task ahead of me. I had now turned elephant poacher, and I thought it was an easy way to make some money. How wrong I was! I had never shot an elephant, but I grew up on the books of the great hunters, Karamojo Bell, Bvekenya Barnard, William Finaughty, and all their contemporaries. But although I had come across many elephant in the bush, I had never had one in my sights. I had spent hours listening to the stories of the hunters in my circle of friends, and many theories about elephant hunting had been absorbed, but I was yet to put them to the test. I trembled at the thought.

Arriving at Chiawa's village late the afternoon I set up camp beneath a big old Marula tree, and strolled over to see the Chief and get his permission to shoot two elephant. He was pleased to see me, and granted me two bull elephants, but insisted that I shoot a cow for him.

At the first crack of dawn Edward arrived with his gear, and we set course for old Wasu's cave. I had a full bag of maize meal for him, twenty pounds of coarse salt, and a bottle of cape brandy. On my last visit I had rigged a rope pulley with a small platform and a swinging gantry from his cave to the bottom of the precipice so that provisions could be brought up to him without his having to walk down a number of times. The rope was long enough that he could operate the lift from the top. We loaded the provisions, and Edward went to the top, carrying the brandy, soon the platform started to move, and within a minute it was rising steadily to the cave. I then started the climb up. This time I was a lot fitter, and got there just as they were swinging the platform over onto the ground at the cave entrance.

Old Wasu stood in his army greatcoat helping Edward offload the bag of maize meal and the salt, and together they carried them into the cave. I could only marvel at the strength of the old man He carried his end like a young man. When he emerged from the dark cave he came over to the fire and sat on a stool. "What is it you seek to hunt here in our valley this time?" He queried.

"This time we are after two Elephants, and I would also like to take home an antelope for fresh meat." I replied. "Also the Chief wants a cow elephant for the village."

Wasu stood up and entered the cave, and when he emerged he was carrying his bag of bones. Sitting back on his stool he opened the bag and scattered the contents on the ground. Taking up his stick he started to turn the slabs of bone and to move other pieces around while muttering to himself. Suddenly he sat upright and looked at me.

"You will come across many antelope, but do not shoot at any because the elephant is capable of hearing and interpreting a gunshot many miles away and they will take off out of the area as fast as their legs will carry them." He bent down and moved two knuckle bones to one side and looked up at me. "You will find two bull elephants near Chiawa's village. One is an old bull almost ready to lie down for the last time; the other is a young bull in the prime of life. The young one is the Askari who looks after the old one, picking and feeding him the young and tender leaves, and the sweet tips of maize in the fields of the villagers, also plucking the sweet potato runners and feeding them to the old bull. He is very cheeky, and will not hesitate to charge if he perceives danger to his elder .So take great care, you will have to shoot them both, but they will carry good ivory, and the Askari will not leave the old bull when he goes down and then you can get a shot at him too. Take your time with the first shot and you will have them both. When they are down, call Chiawa's villagers to cut up the carcasses for meat, and bring me the whole trunk of the Askari. The antelope you will get before you head back home."

We rose and started down the track to the Land Rover and back to the village where we put up camp next to the marula tree. Next morning a deputation of villagers came into camp and told us that the elephants had raided their gardens during the night and had moved off towards some reed beds in a small tributary of the Zambezi River, and they were afraid that once the two were satisfied from grazing in the reed beds they would cross the River and be off. I took up my 8x60 Mauser, made sure that the magazine was loaded with full jacketed rounds, and put another twenty rounds in the pockets of my bush jacket. With one man guiding us, we set off for the reed beds he was talking about. They were about half an hours walk from Chiawa's village, and we approached them down wind.

Suddenly we saw the old bull climbing out of the reeds and walk over to a large Msasa tree about one hundred paces from us. I gasped when I saw the size of his tusks. As he walked he held his head up high and the tips of his tusks were almost brushing the ground. Where they emerged from his mouth they were thicker than my thigh. A regal prize indeed! He walked up to the tree and wearily rested his head against the trunk as if trying to rest the vast weight against the tree for a few moments. I crawled forward till I came to a clump of Mopani scrub about fifteen paces from the old bull. My heart was pounding so loudly that I was sure the beast could hear me, and my hands trembled uncontrollably. I raised the rifle and set the barrel in a fork of the scrub in front of me, sighting the foresight onto the fold of skin at his ear hole. I can remember my mentor old Oom Tom Ferreira telling me that the foresight had to be sighted finely in the vee of the rear sight. Taking a deep breath I let it out slowly and aligned the sights with that fold of skin, slowly squeezing the trigger. The shot sounded extra loud as it went off, and I nearly jumped from fright. The old bull sat back on his haunches and slowly toppled over onto his side away from me. It seemed as if everything happened in slow motion, but I saw a cloud of dust rise as he rolled onto his side

I reloaded the rifle, and stood up straight intently gazing at the fallen bull, and I could see him give two slight kicks and then he lay still. I was just about to walk closer when I heard a piercing scream from the reed beds, and saw the Askari come rushing towards the old bull. As he passed us at about fifteen paces, I sighted behind his shoulder and gave him a lung shot. He arched his back and came to a stop about four paces from the fallen bull facing away from us. I immediately gave him another shot on the root of the tail, and he sat down abruptly, with that he had swiveled broadside on to us, and I let go another shot between his eye and ear, and he collapsed onto his side.

We approached the two carcasses cautiously, and I gripped the younger elephant by the tail and sliced it off close to the base of the spine, then walking over to the old bull did the same. That was an age old tradition, and signified ownership while at the same time made sure that the animal was dead. Next we inspected the tusks, and they were magnificent. The old bull's tusks would be close to one hundred pounds each and the younger one's would push the scale to about sixty pounds each. Not bad for a weekend's work. The next big job would be to cut out the tusks without nicking them with the axe, as such nicks would immediately devalue them considerably.

While we were still sitting next to the old bull's carcass, the first group of villagers started to arrive. How they knew that the carcasses were there or if we had been successful in our hunt I cannot imagine, as we had not sent a message to them, and yet there they were complete with containers and tools for stripping off all the meat. Without further ado they started to cut out the tusks while one opened the stomach and started to pull out the entrails. Within minutes the rest of the village started to arrive firstly in ones and twos, but soon in droves and the butchering began in earnest. Not long and the noise was deafening with men and women squabbling over what they termed the best cuts of meat. Some even crept into the stomach cavity and emerged with large chunks of liver and heart. One man in his haste to get a wide slice off the ribs stuck his sharpened spear into the meat and penetrated the ribcage and plunged the point of his spear into the shoulder of one inside busy cutting out the lungs. He came out at speed and went for the spearman with intent. I had to fire a shot into the air to bring them to order, and then I designated two senior tribesmen to maintain the peace.

The tusks were carried to our camp, and I took the Land Rover back to the elephant carcasses to collect the trunk and delivered it to Wasu. The trunk was so heavy that it took three of us to stow it onto his lift platform and to pull it up the precipice.

Back at camp the butt ends of the tusks were opened and the nerves were extracted, these were a whitish grey conical mass tapering from the round butt end to the fine wiry string at the point. The Tribesmen believed that when they were removed then the cavities should be stuffed with grass to prevent demon spirits entering and taking up residence.

We were off before the sun rose, as I wanted to get the tusks to the buyer, but true to old Wasu's prediction, before we started to climb the escarpment we saw a magnificent Kudu bull which seemed spellbound staring at us with his nose in the air. He fell to a well placed shot to the neck, and after bleeding him; we loaded him onto the back of the Land Rover, and headed for home.

Those were my first two elephants, and the hunt had progressed without any mishap, but the future would show me that my schooling with wild elephants had just begun.