River Danger - African Expedition

Transcription

A
Rhino
in the bathroom
Living with Jimmy
The
Parable
of the Warthog and
the Wildebeest
Learning to wait for the best
River
Danger
Bilharzia in Africa
Survival Kit
for Hunters
Diana
Sure you’re ready for the bush?
Shooting
Hell’s Gate
in Africa
Lady hunters on the dark continent
The
Fishing in spectacular Mozambique
Ancient Craft
Knifemaking in South Africa
Destinations ● African Bush Cuisine ● True North
www.africanxmag.com
E D I TO R I A L
We are into our second volume of publishing. One year
has flown past like 12 days. We are pushing the publishing
envelope and have quickly become an African magazine
that reaches the largest number of serious hunters and
adventurers here in Africa, Europe and the USA.
I won’t go into how we’ve grown and what strides have
been made in our publishing approach, but we are having
an adventure: making new friends, corresponding with new
experts, meeting new legends and seeing new places.
My point is, time is valuable - your time is valuable. Contrary to the way we all feel, life is short and we are fragile.
Death, sickness and hardship touches us all - even the
most talented, youngest and very strongest of us will grow
old and weak.
Ed McMahon, Michael Jackson, Farrah Fawcett-Majors. All
of them died recently and had the world at their feet. Fame
and wealth will not protect you from the ravages of time - in
spite of Cher’s pioneering efforts.
I understand: the economy is depressed and times are
tough. But for how long will your son still be in your house,
your friend still be able to go, your wife still exited about
Africa and travel?
Think of the men we admire most. Which of them are remembered for playing it safe? None. Not one. Zero.
The men who leave a legacy or the gutsy ones.
Theodore Roosevelt, the 26th US President and himself an
avid hunter, wrote:
“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out
how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds
could have done them better.
The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena,
whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who
strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and
again; because there is not effort without error and shortcomings; but who does actually strive to do the deed;
who knows the great enthusiasm, the great devotion, who
spends himself in a worthy cause, who at the best knows
in the end the triumph of high achievement and who at the
worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly.
So that his place shall never be with those cold and timid
souls who know neither victory nor defeat.”
Do it now. Show your guts. Initiate an adventure. Spend the
money-you can always get more.
Buy that new rifle you’ve always wanted. Make that booking for your safari. Climb that mountain. Visit Chobe. Dive
Mozambique. See Namibia. Live.
Don’t miss it.
Mitch Mitchell
3 | AFRICAN EXPEDITION MAGAZINE July 2009
Published by Safari Media Africa
Editors
United States of America
Editor: Alan Bunn [email protected]
Associate editor: Galen Geer [email protected]
Europe
Editor: Hans Jochen Wild [email protected]
Africa
Editor: Mitch Mitchell [email protected]
Financial
Thea Mitchell
Layout & Design
Xtasis Media and Digital Wind
Contributors & Photographers
L. Grizzaffi (Reloading), C. Cheney, A. Bunn,
D. Edgcumbe, G. Geer, Dr. K. Hugo (Medical)
C. Mitchell, Dr. G. Swart (Medical)
Advertising and Marketing
South Africa: T. Mitchell
[email protected]
Phone +27 13-7125246 Fax 0866104466
USA: Alan Bunn [email protected]
(706) 2762608
African Expedition Magazine is an independent bimonthly publication promoting fair,
sustainable hunting, a protected environment,
adventure sports and sustainable practices.
The African Expedition Magazine is published
by Safari Media Africa
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the accuracy of advice and information provided,
the Proprietor. Publisher, Editor or Writers cannot accept responsibility for any damages, inconvenience or injury whatsoever that may result
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graphics and other material will be treated as unconditionally assigned for publication and copyright purposes and material will be subject to
African Expedition Magazine’s unrestricted right
to edit and editorial comment. All material and/
or editorial in African Expedition is the property of
African Expedition and/or the various contributors. No part of this magazine may be reproduced
without the prior written consent of the Publisher.
8 A Rhino in the bathroom
Living with Jimmy
29 Survival Kit for Hunters
38 Shooting Hell’s Gate
53 The Parable of the Warthog and
the Wildebeest
contents
64 River Danger
Bilharzia in Africa
78 Diana in Africa
90 Destinations
Central Kalahari
96 The Ancient Craft
114 African Bush Cuisine
119 True North
A Nice Guy
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July 2009 AFRICAN EXPEDITION MAGAZINE | 7
A Rhino
in the
bathroom
Photo: Carli Hugo
Living with Jimmy
W
David Hulme
hen visiting Humani in the Save Conservancy, one can be assured of being introduced to the newest member of the Humani
clan. This extraordinary new addition is an
orphan rhino calf named Jimmy, who is being
raised by Anne Whittall. When Jimmy arrived at
the Humani homestead, weak and in a generally
sorry state, Anne was forced to play the part of
foster mother rhino. Many will agree that there
could be no-one better for the role.
Jimmy joined the family under the most dreadful circumstances, his mother having been shot by a poacher. Rhino
poaching has been a huge problem in Zimbabwe over the
past twenty-five years, and what was once a healthy national
population has been depleted to critical proportions. Of the
remaining few hundred rhino in this country, the Save Conservancy harbors a far greater number than any other wildlife
area. Because small pockets in other parts of Zimbabwe have
been totally wiped out, the Save Conservancy has recently
been targeted in a fairly big way, with ten rhino shot in little
over a year. The rhino war(s) continue unabated and Jimmy
is just another victim of that ongoing struggle. Let me tell you
Jimmy’s story…..
The news came in from a gamescout patrol via hand-held
radio. A rhino had been poached not far from Elephant waterpoint in the Jurus area, and they had discovered the carcass.
Always quick to react to any crisis situation on Humani,
manager Charlie Pienaar and a handful of gamescouts were
at the scene in double quick time. The kill zone was actually
a few kilometers into a vast mopani forest that offsets the
acacia-sprinkled, open plains of Jurus. After scouting about
the immediate vicinity for clues and coming up empty-handed,
an emotional Charlie returned to HQ to report to Roger Whittall. He had a tragic story to tell. The rhino had been killed
days before, at a time when it had been raining. The killer was
a thorough professional, using the wet weather to cover
his tracks and leaving no clue whatsoever. He had shot
the rhino once in the brain, hacked the horns and ears off,
covered the carcass with brush to hide it from vultures,
and departed the scene as efficiently as he had committed
his dastardly deed. The reason he lopped the ears off was
because he was aware that the Conservancy identifies its
rhino by marking ears. This guy was also aware of much
else. Rhino are very territorial and he knew in exactly
which area to find his target. He also knew, before he shot
the rhino, that Roger Whittall had recalled his gamescouts
for a few days, for a bit of rest and recuperation. He struck
at precisely the right moment and his planning and actions
were meticulous and well calculated. This man knew what
he was about and he left nothing to chance. Once Charlie
had finished telling what he had observed, there was no
doubt in anyone’s mind that it was an inside job. Someone
with knowledge of the area and the goings on at Humani
must definitely be involved. It sickened us all to the core.
Although Roger, Charlie and others were well aware that
the rhino in question had recently birthed and had a very
young calf at heel, nothing much was thought of it. The
rhino had been killed about four days before the vultures
had led scouts to her carcass, and the calf’s chances
of survival were assumed to be non-existent. Especially
since Charlie reported seeing an abundance of fresh lion
spoor crisscrossing the area, and no trace of the calf whatsoever. It seemed an absolute impossibility that the calf
could have survived, and yet there was a twist in the tale.
That twist was little Jimmy’s will to live.
To this day, I don’t know what prompted me to ask Roger if
I could go to the scene of the crime the following morning.
There was no need to – the carcass and vicinity had been
effectively checked over the day before. Anyway, I just
wanted to go and look, and Roger thought it was a good
idea. As an afterthought, Roger instructed me to take a
couple of scouts along and dig around for a bullet in the
rotten carcass. That command didn’t exactly fill me with
enthusiasm. Anyhow, soon I was on my way with Isaac
Bangai and Rindai Rindai, two trusty RWS trackers that
operate as senior gamescouts in the hunting off-season. I
have worked with Isaac and Rindai extensively and know
them both to be extremely capable and willing fellows.
Isaac usually tracks for professional hunter Thierry Labat,
whilst Rindai is PH Peter Wood’s man. As it turned out,
I couldn’t have had a couple of better guys along for the
ride.
We called on the radio and arranged to meet with the
gamescouts who had made the grisly discovery, so that
they could lead us in. They were waiting for us when we
arrived at Elephant water-point half an hour later. After
driving a couple of kilometers, we left the vehicle on the
roadside and entered close-knit mopani forest, walking off
in single file behind Daniel, the stick leader of that particular scout patrol. There were three scouts, so we were six
in total. Great, I thought to myself, I wouldn’t need to do
too much digging around in the rotting rhino – there were
plenty of hands for the job! Can’t totally give up on the old
colonial bit, you know. I mean, who built Southern Africa
anyway!
After Daniel lost his way a couple of times, we came to the
place. As we approached the pathetic lump of dead mass
that represented what was once the pride of this land’s
wildlife heritage, a huge lump came to my throat. Who
could do this thing, I silently wondered. All was quiet for
long minutes as we all just stared in disbelief at the horrific
scene before our eyes. It was a truly shocking sight and
every man amongst us felt bitter resentment. Not resentment actually – rage and hatred. But it was wasted emotion because we were helpless to do anything. Unless…
Unless we could find something, some clue for investigators to work with. We got to work chopping off the head
and began dissecting it.
I actually did assist in the gruesome labor initially, but only
to get the others inspired. After about thirty minutes of
inhaling and groping around in the maggot-infested, putrid
flesh, however, I decided that the others were by now
well inspired and decided to go on a little reconnaissance
patrol about the vicinity. I informed the men that I was off
to take a look about, suggesting that maybe I would find a
clue. Maybe the poacher dropped a bullet or something?
The guys, who were now onto dissecting the forequarters,
all regarded me doubtfully but agreed that it was a possibility. Their reaction told me that I had about a one in a zillion chance of finding anything. But, hey, you never know.
Besides, I just enjoy scouting about unfamiliar country. It is
amazing what I have discovered in the past by just heading off and roaming around the woods for a while.
After walking a large semi-circle through the forest for
about forty-five minutes or so, seeing many lion tracks but
observing nothing out of the ordinary, I decided to return
to the carcass. I find it pretty easy to get lost in the bush,
and it took me a while to work out my bearings and start
heading back in what I sort of thumb-sucked was the right
direction. Changing tack a few times, I soon set myself
on a course and began walking in what I thought to be a
straight line. I always believe I am holding a straight line
when walking in the bush, though usually I am not. In fact,
I don’t remember ever walking a straight line! Anyway, I
was headed where I was headed and off I went, whistling
a little ditty to myself as I strode through the mopani. Not
fifteen minutes later, I walked onto Jimmy.
It was an absolute miracle that I walked onto him. He was
hidden behind and partially beneath a leafy bush, and if
I had walked ten yards either side, I would have missed
him. As it was, I almost literally walked onto him. I took a
step, glancing casually to my left as I did, and then I froze
in mid-stride. I only froze for a second or two, but much
took place in that time. I saw the baby rhino lying prone
behind the bush with only his forequarters visible, staring
wide-eyed up at me. Due to his wide-eyed expression, my
first reaction was that he was dead, and in that instant I
felt the double-whammy of loss. But then he blinked and
I saw that he was definitely not dead, just too petrified to
move and risk discovery. Although very young, Jimmy had
Support Hunters for Zimbabwe by buying David Hulme’s great
new book, Shangaan Song. Proceeds from the sale of this book
will be used to support the BorderLine Walk – a foot journey of
approximately three thousand kilometers along Zimbabwe’s border. The BorderLine Walk is an initiative aimed at raising awareness for Hunters for Zimbabwe, an organization whose primary
objective is the advancement of Zimbabwean people and wildlife.
Get a 10% Launch Discount!
Use this coupon: HUNTERSFORZIMBABWETZ9D
Help us stop those
poaching bastards.
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Jimmy on the day I found him
already been given impressionable insight into the cruel
nature of human beings. I paused for only that second or
two, and then I continued on my way without any other
reaction, so as to not unduly alarm the little guy. About
forty yards later, when I was well away from him, I burst
into a flat sprint through the mopani. It was the fastest I
have moved in years and thoughts were pounding through
my mind. Where were the guys? God, I hope I’m going in
the right direction! How far did I walk, how far am I from
the others? As I ran, fending off whippy branches with my
arms, I tried to figure where I was, and more importantly,
where the guys were. I ran for several hundred meters
in this fashion, before stopping to listen for the first time.
It was probably the first several hundred meter sprint
I’ve ever done! Blood was rushing through my veins, my
breathing was ragged, and I found it difficult to tune my
ears into surrounding sound. Where was I, where were
they? Almost panicking, I wanted to scream out my frustration. I closed my eyes for a minute and allowed the blood
rush to slow slightly, working my jaw and trying to clear my
ears. And then I heard the deep booming laugh of Isaac
Bangai, carrying faintly on the wind. The men were somewhere up ahead, slightly off to the left. Had I thought about
it then, I would have realized that I had almost achieved
a straight line on my return route. But I didn’t think about
anything, because I was sprinting off through the bush
again.
Isaac, Rindai and the scouts appraised me quizzically as
I approached at the run and came to an untidy halt beside
them. Between gasps, I told them that I had seen a rhino
in the bush.
‘Did it chase you?’ asked Isaac.
‘No, it is a young rhino.’
‘Even a young rhino can chase you,’ stated Daniel, matter
of factly.
‘It is very young,’ I said, hands on knees, getting my
breathing back under control. ‘It is the baby of this dead
rhino.’
‘Is it dead?’ asked Isaac, getting down to business in his
no-nonsense manner.
‘No, otherwise I would not have tried to kill myself by running as fast as I did to get back to you.’ My heart-rate was
returning to normal.
‘Let us go and catch it then.’
‘Yes, let us go and catch it.’
‘Handidi.’ ‘No way,’ said Daniel, ‘that thing will bite someone!’
A short argument ensued as I tried to convince Daniel and
the other two scouts that the rhino would do anything but
bite them. It would charge them, butt them, run them over,
but it would certainly not bite them. They were not convinced and I ended up with the support of only Isaac and
Rindai. As it turned out, it was probably a good thing – less
is sometimes more. Without further ado, Isaac, Rindai and
I retraced my headlong flight through the mopani. As we
went, we discussed our plan of action – our rhino capture
strategy.
Stealthily, we approached the bush where I knew the little
calf to be. Now, when I write ‘little’, I mean to say I had already estimated it to be somewhere around 50 kilograms.
Although I imagined it would have next to no strength,
having been without milk for days on end, I really didn’t
know what it was capable of. Our intention was to capture
the rhino fast, with as little commotion as possible, in order
to avoid causing it more trauma than it had already endured. Above all, I did not want to risk it getting away from
us and heading off into the mopani. It had survived as long
as it had, how much longer could it live? Bearing all of
the above in mind, we sneaked in on who we would soon
get to know as Jimmy, me from the front, and Isaac and
Rindai from the rear. We were all well prepped and each
guy knew what he had to do, although the game-plan was
not exactly complicated. Basically, it boiled down to ‘grab
the rhino and don’t let go!’ Actually there was a little more
to it – I was to try a soft approach first and test the little
guy’s strength. But Isaac and Rindai knew they needed
to be very close when I made first contact. I made certain
they were well aware of that!
As I slowly and silently crept in the last few yards, I
thought it was going to be a cinch. Jimmy did not stir, but
his little eyes followed my approach all the way in. And
then I was within a yard, slowly and purposefully bending
my knees, lowering myself to his level. There was no reaction whatsoever as I squatted down before the rhino, and
so I reached out my hand to touch its face. And that was
the point when I realized the capture was not going to be a
cinch, as Jimmy exploded from the ground and butted me
viciously about the knees! I toppled over backwards onto
my backside, but as I did, I grabbed hold of one of his ears
and held on for dear life! Huffing and snorting, Jimmy fast
intensified the attack, the barrage of head-butts crashing
into my legs and torso intensifying by the second. The fact
that that month old creature possessed that amount of
power after four days without nourishment is beyond me
to this day. Whilst I am not a WWF wrestler or anything,
neither am I a weak man, and I struggled with everything I
had to hold onto Jimmy for those few seconds. The headbutting was enough to bring out bruises on my legs the
following day. What a fight he put up! Poor little guy must
have thought it was his last fight.
Though I was certainly on the receiving end of a serious
thrashing, my tag team thankfully wasted no time coming to my assistance. Within seconds, Isaac had a back
leg grasped firmly, whilst Rindai came to lend a hand up
front. Then we dropped Jimmy like a sheep, whipping all
his legs out from under him. Once he was down, Jimmy
began squealing hysterically, probably assuming the fight
was now really over and death imminent. You assume
animals don’t think that way? Specifically month old animals? Let me assure you that they do. Animals know all
about death from the day they are born. Anyhow, Jimmy
began squealing like a stuck pig and trying his utmost to
Help us stop those
poaching bastards.
Donate quickly and
The BorderLine Walk is in support of antipoaching efforts for
Black Rhino in the Savè Valley. Initiated by Hunters for Zimbabwe, the walk will be 3066 kilometers long: 813 kilometers
along the Botswana border, 797 km. along Zambia, 225 km.
along South Africa, and finally 1231 km. along the Mozambique border. The BorderLine Walk will be widely covered
by the media and progress will be published on the African
Expedition Magazine and tracked on Google Earth.
The BorderLine walk will support anti-poaching efforts to prevent this from happening again:
a young black rhino caught in a poacher’s snare. This baby died a few days after this photograph was taken.
tear his head from my grasp. In the process, he swept me
around in the dust a little. Isaac and Rindai held onto his
legs resolutely, and Daniel and the other scouts observed
proceedings from a safe distance. Jimmy satisfactorily
demonstrated the awesome power a rhino possesses during that encounter, specifically in the neck and shoulder
region. Three strong men struggled for minutes on end to
restrain a 50 kg animal that had not fed for four days, and
that is almost unbelievable. Only believable because I was
there!
Eventually, a semblance of order came about when I
whipped off my shirt and covered the exposed side of
Jimmy’s face. Then he could not see and the crazy head
threshing eased. But I still had to clasp his head tightly to
my body – the slightest release of pressure brought about
a renewed effort. Once he had calmed a little, Daniel and
other two scouts plucked up the courage to approach
closer. I barked out orders.
‘Daniel, wuya kuno!’ ‘Come here!’
There must have been something in my tone that made
Daniel temporarily forget his fear of being bitten by a rhino,
and he obeyed with alacrity. I ordered him to take over
Rindai’s position holding the front legs. Rindai is a driver
and we needed him to go and fetch the vehicle as fast as
possible. I instructed him not to waste too much time looking for a suitable route through the mopani, but to return
with all due haste! About 40 minutes later, we heard Rindai
returning when he was still some distance away. From the
sound of things, he had taken my instructions to heart! Not
long after, he was revving and ramming his way up to us
through the last hundred meters of mopani. As the truck
approached, I turned to Isaac who was still patiently manning the rear end of a now fairly subdued rhino calf.
‘What is its name?’ I asked.
Of course, although I have been referring to Jimmy as
a ‘he’ throughout this story, we had no idea what sex he
was. In a similar vein, I have been referring to him as
Jimmy, but we obviously had no name for him. That was
the case up until the point when Isaac peered between the
calf’s back legs and made a positive identification regarding sex. Isaac did not ponder the name choice for long.
‘James. Jimmy, we shall call him Jimmy,’ stated the deep
voice.
Jimmy and Anne Whittall
Help us stop the poaching. Donate quickly and
It was very easy to agree with Isaac’s name choice:
Roger Whittall’s father, James, was known as Jimmy, and
Roger’s grandson (Guy’s son) is named James. And so,
Jimmy officially joined the fold.
The work of the Humani rhino capture unit was not over
yet, far from it in fact. As soon as we began trying to load
Jimmy, the hysterical squealing and frantic struggling
started up again. It would continue for the next hour, as
Isaac and I tried to keep him under control in the back
of the cruiser and Rindai ferried us home to Humani. An
interesting thing to note is that, along the way, Jimmy
drenched my legs with urine. This undoubtedly proved
that he had drunk since the demise of his milk supplier.
Taking the amount of urine that flowed into consideration,
he had drunk a fair amount recently. The only answer to
this is that he taught himself to drink water from one of
several pans that are in close proximity to the place we
found him. Another astounding revelation pertaining to this
determined fellow. Thankfully, once we reached Roger and
Anne’s house, there were many hands to help us offload
Jimmy into temporary, rhino-proof lodgings. I was totally
exhausted by that time. What an ordeal the capture of Jimmy had been! Imagine if he’d been two months old! We’d
probably still be out there!
As soon as Roger Whittall saw who we had brought home,
he took things in hand. It is always a sight to behold when
Roger decides to take things in hand! Barking instructions
at anyone and everyone that came within his line of sight,
Roger soon had ‘operation Jimmy’ well underway. Obviously, the first and most important task was to get some
food inside Jim, and several individuals were dispatched
with orders to contact various rhino gurus countrywide, for
information regarding rhino milk formula. In the meantime,
we felt we should get something into him ASAP, and so we
opted for straight cow’s milk. After a brief scuffle, Jim smelt
the milk seeping from the strange teat and he latched on
like a rhino possessed. It was apparent that it was not going to be a problem coaxing him to feed! Later in the day,
a proven rhino formula was mailed to Humani and orders
were sent out to purchase the necessary ingredients. It
took a few days for those ingredients to arrive, and during
that time we kept him on skimmed cow’s milk. Evidently,
rhinoceros milk does not contain much fat. Jimmy did
not seem to know this, however, and he greedily guzzled
down each and every bottle of milk proffered him from day
one, no matter whose udder it came from! He drank so
much we thought we may be over-feeding him. But if we
stopped feeding him, he became aggressive! From the
word go, he drank eight litres of milk per day. This quantity
has been on the increase ever since, and today, seven
months after his arrival, he consumes three times that
amount.
Jimmy went from strength to strength from, let’s say, day
four of his stay at ‘Hotel Humani.’ Although he fed well during those four days, he was a tad disturbed. The reason
for this was probably that Anne Whittall was away, and we
decided to keep him in a confined little pen until her return.
Not very hospitable, but we were nervous he’d make a
getaway during the night if we didn’t keep him under lock
and key. Upon Anne’s return a few days later, however, he
was released into the garden and his stress level was lowered considerably. Everyone had strict instructions to keep
all gates closed at all times, and Jimmy had the run of the
garden. From that moment, his character began changing. Over the past few months, Jimmy has turned from
an angry and aggressive little tyke into a relaxed, friendly
individual. Before he did not trust most everyone and delivered many a knee popping head-butt, but now he enjoys
the company of people a great deal. This may not be such
a good thing – he will have to return to the wild one day.
Jimmy prefers women to men, and this is solely because
of Anne, whom he understands very well to be his mother.
This is not surprising as Anne bottle-feeds him five or six
times a day. He also eats a couple of pounds of livestock
cubes a day, and has begun browsing a fair amount in the
garden. His introduction to browsing has been a gradual
process, and at first he just picked at leaves, occasionally
popping one in his mouth, maybe chewing it a little, before
spitting it out. He seemed more curious about eating
leaves than anything else. As though he knew he should
be, but just couldn’t bring himself to do it. That is all in the
past, however, and he now spends a healthy amount of
time doing what a black rhino should be doing, and that
is browsing. Although Jimmy is well on the way to making
browse his full time diet, heaven help anyone who dares
forget his feed time! Not yet anyway – Jimmy is probably
just over eight months old now, and rhino calves stay with
their mothers till about two years of age.
Jimmy is not allowed into the house but he doesn’t seem
to know this. At times, he likes to come into the lounge
and socialize. When he is feeling neglected, he squeaks
his indignation and people jump around. We have what
is supposed to be a rhino-proof steel gate blocking off
the verandah entrance to the house, but Jimmy butts it
over and enters anyway. Well, he used to butt it over. Not
so long ago, he attempted the bulldozer angle once too
often, and the heavy steel gate fell on top of him. Then
he squealed in anger and wouldn’t let anyone near for
about an hour. Anne treated his minor wounds with some
antiseptic spray and he looked pretty hilarious with blue
splotches on his back. I think it taught him a good lesson,
for he now avoids that entrance to the house, preferring to
make use of the many others.
Jimmy has quite a few friends these days – the dogs, two
orphan cows and the orphan buffalo. He has also introduced himself to a family of warthogs that frequent the
front lawn in the evenings. The smaller warthogs are terrified of him, but mommy hog is simply curious and once
they almost touched snouts before uncertainty caused her
to flee.
Anne often takes Jimmy walking, and I have accompanied
a couple of those walks in recent times. I was warned in
advance that rhino walks can be hazardous, and the only
reason I put myself on the line was in the name of frontline journalism. What an experience those walks were!
Help us stop the poaching. Donate quickly and
Support Hunters for Zimbabwe by buying David Hulme’s great
book, Shangaan Song, A poignant and humorous tale of Africa.
Proceeds from the sale of this book will be used to support the
BorderLine Walk – a foot journey of approximately three thousand
kilometers along Zimbabwe’s border. The BorderLine Walk is an
initiative aimed at raising awareness for Hunters for Zimbabwe,
an organization whose primary objective is the advancement of
Zimbabwean people and wildlife.
The whole thing, you see, is that these excursions have
nothing to do with walking. Not rhino walking anyway. No,
this is all about shuffle or gallop, no walking involved at
all. Anne and the dogs walk ahead while Jimmy brings
up the rear, shuffling along and losing ground as he
goes. Suddenly he realizes he has been left behind and
achieves zero to top gear in seconds. Rhino are extremely
short-sighted and, pounding down the road after Anne,
Jimmy seldom picks her out until he is really close. Narrow
misses are often the order of the walk. Jimmy has upended Anne once before and she was not overly amused.
It is actually fairly dangerous, and Anne now walks with a
metal contraption that I’ll take the liberty of calling a braceframe. Hopefully it will absorb most of the impact the next
time Jimmy doesn’t slow down in time!
Late one night, a guest who was expected much earlier
in the day arrived at Humani. Most had long since retired,
but being a nocturnal sort of type, I was still awake. After a
cup of coffee, I directed the exhausted guest to his bedroom, which is adjoined to the bathroom. Imagine what a
shock the poor fellow received
when he bumbled sleepily into
the bathroom and found Jimmy
bedded down for the night
beside the bath! The alarmed
guest backed through the
bathroom door and out onto the
verandah at pace, almost falling
over backwards as he did. I was
enjoying a late night cigarette
on the verandah, and looked up
surprised. Had he seen a snake
or something, I wondered. Wideeyed and white as a sheet, the
poor fellow turned to me and
began stammering, struggling to
find words.
‘What is it?’ I prompted him.
‘Dave, there’s a…there’s a…a…a…a’
‘A what, come on spit it out?’ By now I was a little concerned and had flicked my cigarette away, readying myself
for action. This is Humani, after all, and this guy could
have encountered anything at all in the bathroom.
‘There’s a…a…a…r…r….rrrr’ He had got past a, and
moved onto r, which was good progress. And then I suddenly got it. Jimmy had had a bit of an altercation with
Anne earlier in the day, because he had objected to her
re-arranging his straw bed behind the office. Obviously
sulking, he had decided to boycott his bedroom for the
bathroom! The disturbed guest was still trying to find the
words.
‘There’s a..a…r..r..rhi..rhi…’ He was getting there but I
decided to save him further agony at that point.
‘There’s a rhino in the bathroom?’ I asked
It came out with a rush as he nodded his head vigorously
in the affirmative. ‘Yes, there’s a rhino in the bathroom, a
rhino in the bathroom, a rhino…..’ Now that he had it, he
didn’t want to stop.
I put a re-assuring hand on the guy’s shoulder. ‘Don’t
stress, that’s Jimmy, come and meet him…’
Needless to say, that guest was not overly keen to introduce himself to young Jim.
When we found Jimmy, we estimated him to weigh between 50 and 60 kilograms. He is now over three times
that weight – probably 200 or so kilograms. Although he
is mostly a placid kind of guy, he is also super tough and
possesses unbelievable strength for an animal his size
and age. The strength in his shoulders and neck, specifically, is awesome. I would hate to see the fellow who is
butted by him when he’s a mature rhino! I hope it’s not me
but it probably will be! When Jimmy arrived at Roger and
Anne’s house at the beginning of the year, he could fit under the tea table. Now, his back is inches higher than that
table, and he collides with it on a regular basis, smashing
cups, saucers etc. Though still
a tiny stump, Jimmy’s horn is
also growing at a rapid rate.
I sometimes wish he wasn’t
growing that controversial
horn.
Although Jimmy clearly loves
Anne more than any other, I
like to think he has a soft spot
for me. I also like to think that
this is because he remembers
that I am the one who found
him. I have done very little
of significance in my life, but
finding Jimmy certainly tops
the list. I spend a great deal of
time with Jimmy when I’m on Humani, and I consider us
friends. I just need to remind myself, every once in a while,
that you can be beaten up by a friend!
Jimmy joined the Humani/Whittall fold as the result of a
terrible tragedy, and none of us should ever forget the
details of that tragedy. Conversely, because miracles do
happen, Jimmy is not a statistic of the ongoing rhino war,
rather he is a survivor. I do not consider young Jimmy
Whittall to be a victim of one brutal rhino slaying in a
dense mopani forest that flanks the Juru’s area of Humani.
No, I consider him to be a shining ray of hope in the entire
saga that is the Zimbabwe rhino tragedy. It is guys like
Jimmy who inspire the
David Hulme is
rest of us to carry on
a Zimbabwean
fighting. It is guys like
writer and profesJimmy who constantly
sional wanderer
remind us that, no
who spends most of
matter how impossihis time searching
ble victory may seem
for new stories and
at times, this war is
country, never staynot yet over…..
ing too long in any
one place.
Support Hunters for Zimbabwe by buying David Hulme’s great book,
Shangaan Song. Proceeds from the sale of this book will be used to
support the BorderLine Walk – a foot journey of approximately three
thousand kilometers along Zimbabwe’s border. The BorderLine Walk
is an initiative aimed at raising awareness for Hunters for Zimbabwe,
an organization whose primary objective is the advancement of Zimbabwean people and wildlife.
SPONSORS
CLICK on a logo to go to the sponsor’s web site
Show your support
Donate quickly and
WEAR ONE T-SHIRT
Carry the hopes of Zim’s rhinos.
Pick a cool T-Shirt and help support anti-poaching training in the Save Valley. Please support
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CLICK HERE TO BUY
Hardwear
for the bush
Survival Kit
for Hunters
Cleve Cheney
B
ush emergencies usually come unexpectedly and for
the unprepared outdoorsman can have serious and
possibly even fatal consequences. Every hunter should
have a basic survival kit which could make all the difference between life and death in a worst case scenario.
Now you get survival kits and survival kits. Some are so
exhaustive that you would need a large backpack to accommodate all its components. Whereas more is generally better it is not always practical to have to lug a lot of
survival gear around with you when hunting on foot. So
we are looking at a “bare bones” basic kit which could fit
into a small sized hip pouch.
When thinking basic one has to narrow down the emergencies
which could be life threatening in the short term. In the modern
context hunters will seldom be exposed to medium to long term
survival situations – meaning 5 days or more. In most instances
if a hunter does not report back to the outfitter, or landowner by
nightfall or return home to family or friends when expected, a
search and rescue operation is sure to be launched. Knowing
more or less the area in which the hunter was hunting also makes
it easier for searchers to know where to begin looking. Survival
challenges will in most cases therefore be of short duration and it
is important for us to identify some of the most likely case scenarios when we decide on the contents of a basic bush survival kit.
When we think of survival we
should be thinking in terms of
meeting physiological and mental requirements to sustain the
essential processes for life. What
are the basic essentials for life?
We need air to breath, water to
drink, food to eat, to be in an environment where we can sustain
body temperature at 370 C (give
or take about 4 degrees), and to
avoid serious injury or sickness.
Air (or rather the oxygen in it) is
vital for life. Four minutes without
air will result in unconsciousness
as the brain becomes starved of
oxygen and damage to brain cells
commences. A person can still
be resuscitated at this stage but
if the brain receives no oxygen
for a period of six minutes the
brain itself dies and, under normal
circumstances, the person cannot be revived and is said to be
brain dead or biologically dead.
Water is another essential element for life and in a hot environment where there is an increased
demand for water to replace that
lost in sweat, urine and bodily
excretions a person can die from
dehydration and the physiological consequences resulting from
it within the space of three days.
Food, although essential for
maintaining body metabolism and
providing energy for physiological processes, is not a short term
necessity.
A person will not die of hunger within the space of
a week or, for that matter, a month or more. In fact
it takes between 60-70 days for a person to die of
hunger and it is extremely unlikely that a hunter will
be lost for that period of time.
Maintaining body temperature within normal limits is
necessary for survival. Become too cold (hypothermic) or too hot (hyperthermic) and you can die within
minutes or hours. Both case scenarios are possible
in a hunting environment where bushveld temperatures can soar into the low fourties (0C) and fall to
well below freezing. Injury leading to severe blood
loss can lead to death within minutes.
Other life threatening medical emergencies which a
hunter could be confronted with are heart attacks,
strokes, snakebite, and severe allergic (anaphylactic)
shock resulting from bee sting, foods or medication
to which the person is allergic to.
How do we go about now prioritizing what we will
include in our basic kit?
In the event of a hunting buddy having a heart attack
or an emergency involving cessation of breathing it
would be wise to include a CPR mouthpiece which
would be used when administering rescue breathing. You should also be trained in how to give rescue
breathing and how to do cardiopulmonary resuscitation (CPR).
Water is a
priority so carry a
minimum of 1-2 litres
in durable containers
with you when you go out
into the bush. A camelback is a
convenient option. Hyperthermia
(heatstroke or heat exhaustion) and
dehydration are soon precipitated by
inadequate intake of water so the means for
procuring and purifying water are absolutely essential.
Take enough water purification tablets to purify 3 litres of
water per day for 5 days. Also include a small aluminium pot
for cooking purposes and in which you can boil water to purify it
if you run out of purification tablets. Remember that drinking unpurified water can be fatal. Diseases such as cholera and amoebic dysentery are contracted from drinking contaminated water and lead to severe
vomiting and diarrhoea which further compounds problems of dehydration.
The ability to make fire is absolutely essential as fire provides light, warmth, protection from wild animals, the ability to cook, the means for sterilizing instruments and
working with metal and dries wet clothing and equipment. Carry at least two fire making
implements such as a flint and steel (recommended), butane lighter, waterproof matches (or ordinary matches in a waterproof container), or magnifying glass. Also learn
fire making techniques using naturally available materials. Always dress warmly when
leaving on a hunt. Warm clothing can be shed if it is too hot but can be available if the
weather turns cold or wet. A waterproof jacket is advisable but if you consider it too
bulky to carry with you include a sheet of durable plastic (or a couple of garbage bags)
in your first aid kit with which you can build a shelter or cover yourself with to help keep
you dry if it rains or if there is heavy dewfall. If you become wet you will lose body heat
very quickly and will be far more prone to hyperthermia so at all costs try and remain as
dry as possible.
Although food is not a priority in short term survival it does provide
energy and is a morale booster. Carry a few teabags (or coffee),
some sugar, a few packets of soup, Smash (add water to make
mashed potatoes), a little salt, and a couple of energy bars. If you are
out hunting you will be armed and can shoot something for the pot to
provide yourself with fresh meat.
A multi-tool pocket knife is an essential item for any survival kit as it
has literally hundreds of useful applications. A small knife sharpener
would be useful but not essential.
An ordinary compass (not a GPS that relies on batteries which could
go flat) would be a valuable aid in finding direction a small torch (fitted onto a headband) would be very useful in the dark.
As far as medical supplies are concerned the following are recommended to be carried with you:
●● Two first aid dressing to cover wounds and help control bleeding.
●● A haemostat to help control severe bleeding.
●● A few assorted plasters.
●● Three sachets of Rehydrate powder – to replenish essential
electrolytes lost during excessive sweating, vomiting and / or
diarrhoea.
●● Six tablets for diarrhoea (e.g. )
●● Six tablets for nausea and vomiting (e.g. Valoid or Stemetil)
●●
Ten tablets for mild pain and fever (e.g. Disprin)
●●
Your own personal medications:
●● If you are a diabetic - enough insulin and extra
sugar or glucose sweets.
●●
If you have a heart ailment (high
blood pressure, low blood pressure, angina etc.) – carry
enough medication with
you for your specific
ailment.
All the items mentioned fit into this small hip pouch.
The contents of a basic survival kit.
●● If you are allergic to bee sting or other have other allergies of which you are aware include injectable adrenaline
available in pre-measured doses in your survival kit.
When selecting survival tools look for those which can serve
more than one purpose. An example is shown in Figure 1. This
tool has a small button compass, whistle to attract attention, a
signaling mirror, a flint for striking a spark and a waterproof compartment for keeping small items such as matches, fish hooks,
water purification tablets or some other useful item.
All the items mentioned in this article (Figure2) can be fitted into
a hip pouch (apart from the water containers), are lightweight
and can be life saving. See Figure 3. Every responsible hunter
should ensure that he has just such a kit riding on his hip before
he departs into the field. He will then be in a position to deal with
an emergency should it arise.
A useful survival tool should have
more than one function.
Cleve Cheney holds
a bachelor of science
degree in zoology and
a master’s degree in
animal physiology.
He is a wilderness
trail leader, rated field
guide instructor and
the author of many
leading articles on the
subjects of tracking, guiding, bowhunting
and survival. Cleve has unrivalled experience in wildlife management, game capture and hunting, both with bow and rifle.
Shooting
Hell’s Gate
Galen Geer
I
remember the moon. It was clear and big and
hung over the ocean. Far across the water I
could see the outline of Mozambique’s ilha de
Bazaruto. I looked down, toward the beach. A
hundred yards from me, double-anchored and
bright in the moon’s light was the CR II, the 24foot twin outboard boat of Louwrens Mahoney
and Rocco Gioia.
Mozambique was still climbing out of the darkness of
civil war. The peace accords between FRELIMO and
RENAMO that had been signed not quite four years
earlier, in 1992, had called for all of the rebels to turn
in their weapons, but there were still a few bands of
armed thugs roaming the war-ravaged countryside.
To protect the boat and our gear Louwrens had hired
two locals armed with AK47s to sleep on the boat. He
also hired two others to keep watch on our chalet while
we slept and also during the day while we were fishing. While I was watching the moon one of the chalet
guards walked past me, smiling and nodding.
Louwrens was standing on the chalet’s veranda and
he walked over and sat in the beach chair beside
me.
“Things do change in Africa,” Louwrens said.
“How so?” I asked.
“A few years ago a black man with an AK would have
probably been trying to kill us.”
“And now we hire them to be our guards.”
“Yes,” Louwrens said slowly. “Now they are protecting us, probably from their old comrades. It is our
Africa, theirs and ours and why we love it.”
He wasn’t being nostalgic or sarcastic but stating
what for him, a South African, was simple fact. Then
he said that he was happy with the peace and the
changes. “I want the blacks to have their country. If
they will import good management in ten years Mozambique will again be the African Rivera.”
The guard passed again and again nodded and
smiled. “A black man with an AK protecting a white
man from another black man,” Louwrens said. “This
is Africa.”
Louwrens didn’t say anything else but stood and
walked to the chalet, closing the screen door behind
him. I sat for a few more minutes, realizing that the
moon had climbed high overhead. I stood up and
turned for the door.
From the night’s shadow the guard said, “Goodnight,
sir.”
“Goodnight to you,” I said, and then added, “stay
safe.”
“Yes sir.”
Morning would come too early. We would bring the
boat trailer down to the beach with the Seta Hotel’s
tractor then we could load the boat. As I made my
way to my room I could hear the heavy breathing
of the others. I was sitting on my bed when I heard
Carolee open her door.
“Decent?” She asked.
“Yeah. What’s up?
She stood in the night shadow. “I don’t know. I
wanted to ask if you are ready to go home.”
In few more days we would be leaving Africa. Our
flight from Johannesburg’s International Airport would
take us directly to Miami, Florida.
“Not really. I’ve been in Africa for a month now so
it’s time to go. I’ve got to get home and take care of
things.”
“Me too,” she said. I sensed her reluctance.
“You’re not ready to go home.”
“No. Three weeks hasn’t been enough.”
I didn’t answer. There wasn’t any need to answer.
For several years Carolee and I had hunted together
and we were on our third trip through South Africa.
We’d been fishing, hunting, touristing, and visiting
friends. It was good. “You still plan to come back
next year?” I asked, and then added: “I warned you
before you came the first time that no one goes to
Africa once.”
She laughed and moved out of the shadow. Her long
brown hair caught the still bright moon glow. “If you
love Africa, you don’t ever really leave it; you just go
do something else for a while,” she said.
Moon glow shimmered on her long, green nightgown
when she opened the door to her room. “Every trip
is an adventure.”
“Like hell’s gate?” I asked.
“I didn’t have time to be scared—did you?” She answered.
“No.”
She opened the door and left, pulling it closed behind
her. No, I didn’t have time to be scared; I was too
busy holding on for dear life.”
To Seek Adventure
Each of us knows men who carve their place in the
world by defining themselves, not by being defined.
Both Louwrens Mahoney and Rocco Gioia are those
sorts of men. Raised as brothers the two men’s
inheritance from Rocco’s father was one of South
Africa’s premier pipeline construction companies and
a sprawling cattle ranch between Hoedspruit and
Kruger Park. In a division of management Louwrens
manages the construction company and Rocco managed the more than 2100 hectare Casketts Ranch.
Rocco and his (then) wife Renee, were both medical
doctors, and they transformed Casketts into a world
renowned hunting preserve.
Shortly after the lodge was finished in the early
1980s one of the first “name” clients to hunt Casketts
was the American rock star Ted Nugent. Because
Nugent is an avid and internationally known bow
hunter Rocco enlisted Nugent’s expertise to design
the ranch’s system of bow hunter hides. Over the
years Nugent made several trips to the ranch and
Rocco has frequently said that Ted Nugent “the best
hunter who had ever hunted the ranch.” The NugentGioia friendship was celebrated by Nugent and his
wife Shemane when they named their second son
Rocco Winchester Nugent, after Rocco.
I first hunted the ranch in 1992 and then on five more
occasions through the 1990s. Each visit included
additional adventures, a practice that begin in 1992
when we flew to Zambia to check on a game capture
Rocco was financing, plus visiting a new hunting
concession and safari camp he was having built near
Kafue National Park in eastern Zambia. The native
workers who were building the camp needed more
meat rations and Rocco obtained hunting permits
in Lusaka and after a torturous two day drive to the
camp I was sent out to hunt impala for camp meat.
Years later the trip and hunt was the inspiration for
part two of my short story “Borrowed Hunts.”1
Pemba
The following year Rocco, Louwrens, and two other
South Africans, Wynand du Plessis and Tom Steenkamp, plus me, drove two Land Cruisers from Komatiport, South Africa over the sand road to Maputo,
Mozambique. The road paralleled the highway and
we could only hope all of the landmines had been
picked up or exploded. (Later we learned that the
next day a car hit a mine and the occupants were
killed.)
We passed the rusting remains of convoys of civilian
cars that had been ambushed and their occupants
killed in the final days of the war for independence,
when the white government collapsed. The convoys
had been filled with the descendants of the Europeans, mostly Portuguese, who were fleeing Mozambique for South Africa. Many of them never reached
the border. The shattered and rusting hulks of cars
and trucks were grim monuments to the nation’s suffering.
In Maputo a friend of Rocco’s stored both Land
Cruisers then drove us to the airport for our Zambian Airlines flight to Pemba. The plane made a
stop at Beira where bored guards ordered all of the
passengers to deplane and the baggage removed,
searched, and then put back aboard. While the local
authorities were doing their thing we drank warm
Black Label beer in what (then) passed for a bar and
watched our pile of fishing tackle get searched.
At the time only a few months had passed since the
1 A copy of the author’s collection of short stories about Africa,
Last Supper in Paradise, can be ordered through this magazine.
General Peace Accords between FRELIMO (Front
For Liberation of Mozambique) and RENAMO (Mozambique Resistance Movement) had been signed
in Rome, Italy. Rocco and Louwrens wanted to
investigate the possibilities of establishing a fishing
safari operation in Pemba with camps on the islands.
Rocco had chartered a boat to take us from Pemba
to ilha de Ibo, by slow tour of the sand and mangrove
islands along the coast. Tom Steenkamp, an international big game angler who had won tournaments
around the world was the fishing expert, and Wynand
du Plessis was to look at the investment potential.
Rumors abounded that the fabled sport fishery had
survived both decades of constant warfare and rape
by the Russian fishing fleet.
Welcome to the Nautilus
So soon after the outbreak of peace there were few
hotel choices in Pemba. The Hotel Nautilus, situated
on the beach of Pemba Bay, offered accommodations in rondavel chalets. The hotel complex was
an irregular grouping of whitewashed buildings with
parking in front, the beach and bay behind it. The
social center of the hotel (such as it was) was the
restaurant and the social center of the restaurant
was the large, covered, open air patio that faced the
bay.
The boat Rocco and Louwrens chartered was a 40foot, wooden hulled, diesel-powered fishing boat that
was equipped with a galley, head, sleeping berth in
the bow, bridge cabin, and was crewed by two deck
hands. The boat was owned and skippered by two
intrepid South Africans, Steve Anderson and Clive
Gauutlett, who were trying to establish a dive shop in
Pemba. They wanted to cash in on the tourist trade
that would return to Mozambique.
We planned to spend two days fishing the bay and
immediate coastal areas around Pemba then begin
a leisurely trip through the coastal islands of the
Quirmbas Archipelago north of Pemba, going as far
north as ilha de Matemo. Between the islands we
would, of course, be fishing.
Nothing ever goes according to plan and our two
days at the hotel became four days of frustration.
The first day, as planned, Rocco rented the hotel
manager’s car and we drove into town to buy supplies, and obtain permits by dealing with the chaos
of a new government that was still trying to sort itself
out.
The government building was grim. The outside
walls were pockmarked by small arms fire, broken
windows were waiting for repair, and a long dead
grass lawn surrounded it. Inside, broken light bulbs
were in the sockets and the elevators were not working. Every desk without a worker was covered with a
layer of dust. After buying fishing permits we bought
supplies, stopping at a half-dozen sparsely stocked
shops to fill our shopping list.
That night we ate our first meal at the hotel restaurant. I ordered a grilled chicken and was served road
killed seagull! The second night we drove into town
to meet and have dinner with one of the few Europeans who had stayed in Pemba through the war
years.
Dinner was at a local restaurant and we were served
a main course of mystery meat that closely resembled thick slices of fried tainted bologna. Overhead,
the restaurant’s two glaring light bulbs hung from
the ceiling on long, twisted cords and they swayed
constantly in the slight breeze, causing our shadows
to drift across the dingy walls. Wine was served in
clear bottles that were refilled from large wooden
casks perched behind the bar. Before leaving we
helped the proprietor pour the wine we hadn’t drunk
back into the casks.
At the Nautilus we collapsed onto our beds and let
the slowly rotating fan push air past our sweating
and diarrhea tortured bodies. By morning the mystery meat’s effects had passed on. Every day we
faced new obstacles, either from the government or
a breakdown on the boat. To break up the boredom
we snorkeled the coral reefs, fished around the bay,
drank beer, rum and whiskey. Louwrens swore that
if he drank his rum or whiskey neat, over ice, the
alcohol would kill the bugs in the ice. He was wrong,
of course.
The day before we were finally going to start north
Rocco and I were sitting on the restaurant’s patio,
drinking beer and talking about Africa’s future when
one of the local boys who were always trying to sell
us jewelry made from sea turtle shells brought us a
fresh crab.
“Você pode adquirir mais destes?” Rocco asked. He
was adept at using his mix of Spanish and Portuguese to communicate.
“Sim,” the boy said.
“Bom, quanto?” Rocco asked.
“Muitos! Muitos!”
counting up the Meticals he would be paid. That
afternoon he returned with a burlap bag bulging with
fresh crabs. After dutifully paying the boy Rocco
and Louwrens carried the sack into the kitchen and
instructed the cook that our dinner that night would
be crab and fried potatoes—no rice.
We gorged ourselves on crab and bottles of Pinot
Greigio. The next day we shuttled our gear to the
boat that anchored several hundred yards out. We
also had a surprise guest passenger, Tine Karlsson,
a twenty-something Norwegian bombshell from the
local UN offices. She was the target of Clive and
Steve’s amorous intentions.
On the Indian Ocean side of Mozambique’s coastal
islands the Russian fishing fleet had used nets and
long lines to decimate the fish populations but their
ships’ draft was too deep to venture inside the island
chains, so the fishing had survived. What had not
survived were the skills of the native fishing guides.
The men who had worked for the Europeans as
fishing guides and crewed boats taking clients out
for marlin and sailfish were now dead. Either they
had died fighting in the war or had been executed by
one side or the other. Now there were just stories,
passed down from men who had been too old to fight
or execute. Where the marlin were caught, the techniques and tackle used, was lost. It would be rebuilt
in a post war Mozambique.
The morning after the crab fest we left the hotel
at 0600 hrs, but were forced back into Pemba Bay
by high winds. Frustrated, we set out trolling baits
and a few minutes before 0900 Louwrens’s rod was
jerked violently and he was fast into a large Wahoo.
The fish was finally boated and weighed; it cleared
38 kg. When the winds dropped we turned for the
sea, cruising past Pointe Diablo at 1330 hrs. and
an hour later two rods were hit and our Norwegian
guest, Tine, caught the first fish of her life, a blue
spotted kingfish.
We trolled past the ilha de Quiziva, then the ilha de
Mefunto before dropping anchor off the beach of ilha
de Quilalea. We lowered ourselves into the warm
waters and waded to shore to cook fish and bake
potatoes over a beach fire. Sitting around the fire we
ate the fish and baked potatoes with our fingers. As
the fire burned down Louwrens asked Steve where
he’d packed the bedding and offered to fetch it from
the boat.
“Bom! Os traga aqui e eu os comprarei.”
“I didn’t pack any bedding,” Steve said, adding that
he thought we’d bring our own.
The boy took off, chattering as he ran, obviously
We stared at Steve and Clive. “You can’t be seri-
ous!” Louwrens demanded.
“I figured Clive, Tine and I would sleep on the boat
and you guys on the beach in your sleeping bags.”
“Do we have anything for bedding?” Louwrens
asked.
“Beach towels,” Rocco said. “We’ve got beach towels.”
There was also a small tent on the boat. We drew
straws for the tent and Rocco and I would sleep in it,
using beach towels for blankets. The little bedding in
the sleeping berth was divided among the others, all
of whom slept on the boat. The next night a steady
rain kept all of us on the boat, reminiscent of Humphrey Bogart on The African Queen. Interestingly
Tine slept on deck, leaving the berth for others.
By the time we reached ilha de Ibo we’d cruised the
mangrove islands, camped on pristine, white sand
beaches and discovered why Mozambique had been
Africa’s Rivera. Even the islands with small local
populations were held in timelessness. The only
clutter we found were piles of seashells. The world
and its problems had skipped the islands.
“In ten years it will be destroyed,” Rocco said while
standing on the beach of Ibo and looking out to sea.
“What will?” I asked.
“The islands, the clean water, the beaches, and the
fishing. The tourists will come and greed will ruin it.”
I didn’t answer.
By the beginning of 1994 the question on my mind,
and on the minds of many others, was if Mozambique was truly changing and welcoming tourists.
The answer to the question was not in tour books,
they were probably packed with lies, but in Mozambique—we had to go there. In January of 1994,
Rocco, Louwrens, and I began planning our trip only
this time we would fish the waters in and around Maputo Bay and we would do the fishing from our own
boat. Rocco and Louwrens reserved two chalets at
the Hotel Inhaca, on ilha de Inhaca 40 km across the
bay from Maputo. Both Rocco and Louwrens had
already visited the island and fished the waters so
they were familiar with the area but tour operators
were advertising the refurbished hotel was under
new, European management, and that the salt water
fishing opportunities were as good as they had ever
been. Rocco wanted me to form my own opinion.
Two others would join us for the trip; Louwrens’s
fishing partner, Mike Hughes and my hunting friend,
Carolee. Before leaving we celebrated Louwrens’s
42nd birthday. Early in the morning on the 27th of
May we left for Mozambique.
Unlike the trip to Pemba in 1993 that had been
exploratory this was a true fishing trip. Carolee and
I wanted material for magazine articles. Rocco, Louwrens and Mike were on holiday. When we’d driven
over the sand road to Maputo it was because of landmines and potholes and after a year’s work most of
the four lane highway was repaved and open to traffic. The war’s wreckage had not been cleared. The
rusting hulks of the cars and trucks of people who
tried to flee Mozambique for South Africa and never
made it, and the remains of military vehicles, lined
parts of the road. Tractors that had been abandoned
by farmers forced to flee the country were mute in
the fields.
Even with the progress of nearly two years of peace
there were still permit issues to be overcome, complicated because we’d brought Rocco and Louwrens’s
boat, the CR II. Still, they were resolved and with
permits in hand we launched the boat, using the old
and crumbling yacht club’s ramp. While Louwrens
parked the Land Cruiser and trailer inside the club’s
fenced and locked parking lot we stowed our gear for
the trip across the bay.
In my journal for May 27, 1995 I wrote that we had
a calm sea crossing the bay and after moving our
personal gear into our chalets at the Hotel Inhaca
we returned to the boat that was anchored just a few
yards from the beach:
We went fishing for a few hours in the late afternoon. Caught several cudas. [There is a dispute in
my notes regarding the actual species.] The water
was being pushed just a little by the wind so we had
some moderate [?] seas. On the way in I saw [sic]
spectacular sunset that I describe [sic] as follows:
A fiery scarlet globe slipping behind thin strips of
clouds on the horizon and topped with a jeweled
crown of gold. (Journal of G. Geer)
The following morning, following intermittent rains
throughout the night, we awoke to the threat of more
rains. We decided to tour the island’s Marine Museum. To get there we rode the island’s mass transit-a wagon with seats that was pulled by an aging
tractor. The twenty minute ride to the museum was
uneventful, though through a lush landscape. At the
museum we signed in and were quickly amazed that
the museum had survived the revolution’s aftermath
when vestiges of colonial rule had been wantonly
destroyed.
Even more remarkable was it had survived the civil
war. Inhaca, we were told, had largely been ignored
during the civil war because of the difficulty reaching
it, which also explained how the museum escaped
destruction during the anti-colonialism rampage.
Carolee, who holds a Master of Science in Conservation and Natural Resources, discovered trays of
type specimens, some dating back more than a century that had been protected and maintained by the
small group of self-appointed museum guards. With
Rocco translating she asked the guards if they knew
what they had been protecting.
“Você sabe o que estas coisas são?” Rocco carefully and slowly asked the guard.
“Não. Era importante para professores e outro antes
da guerra assim que nós permanecemos aqui para
mantê-la segura.” The guard answered. Several
times Rocco asked him to repeat what he said until
he understood what the guard was saying then he
turned to Carolee and translated the conversation.
“I asked him if he knew what he was guarding.”
“What did he say?” she asked.
“He said that no, but that he knew it was important
because teachers and others came and worked
here.”
Carolee’s eyes welled with emotion, realizing that
more than a century of important biological scientific
knowledge had been saved from destruction by a
small group of islanders who recognized its value
without understanding it. “Tell them I am grateful for
what they have done. Tell them, ‘Thank you.’”
Rocco did and they smiled at Carolee and nodded,
pleased.
After another tractor ride back to the hotel over a
longer, more scenic island road we ate lunch at the
hotel then went fishing. We were trolling around
the point of the island, toward the open sea, when
my reel was solidly hit and I was into a king fish that
fought hard and sounded twice before I had pulled it
close enough for Louwrens to gaff. We caught three
more fish before we quit for the day. After securing
the boat and our tackle we decided to escape the
hotel and have dinner in Inhaca village at “the” eating
spot on the island—Restaurante Lucas. Louwrens
sent the king fish over to Lucas’ to be prepared for
our dinner. It was early evening when we walked
from the hotel to Lucas’s
Lucas, the restaurant’s owner, had been the hotel’s
chef, beginning when the hotel was built by the
Portuguese in 1970. When the new management
arrived he was demoted to cook. Frustrated and
unwilling to accept the demotion he quit and opened
his restaurant—Inhaca Restaurante Lucas.2 (He is
still in business.)
When we pushed the door open Lucas immediately
recognized his friends, Louwrens and Rocco, and
hurried across the one room, bamboo-walled restaurant to eagerly shake their hands.
“Once more, my friends, you visit me,” Lucas said.
Louwrens introduced each of us to Lucas, who then
settled us at a table that was held level by pieces of
wood pressed between the floor and the table legs.
Customers had sent Lucas their flags from around
the world, including a number of USA states, and
he’d them hung from the ceiling to provide a bohemian sort of color for atmosphere.
One end of the restaurant was the kitchen and the
cooking was over wood fires in cement fireplaces. A
single table for preparing the meals separated the
kitchen from the tables. Lucas brought us each a
cold Castle® beer.
“So, my friends,” Lucas said, leaning against the
counter, “the fishing has been good?”
“It could be better,” Louwrens said.
“You know,” Lucas said, “before the revolution people
came from around world and they would stay in the
hotel and fish from the boats. Now they are gone.”
“The fishermen?” Rocco asked.
“The fishermen, the guides, the boats, the men who
owned the boats, they are all gone.”
“Did they go to South Africa, Europe?” I asked.
Lucas looked sad and shook his head “no.” He didn’t
smile. “Most of them died in the fighting. Some
in the revolution, others in the war but now no one
remembers how to catch the big fish.” He turned and
walked into the kitchen area and I thought he was
going to start serving our meal. Instead, Lucas dug
something out from under the counter and returned
with an envelope. He handed it to me. “Those pictures are from the hotel, of the fish they caught.”
The small black and white prints were yellowing
pictures of marlin, sailfish and other trophy fish. “We
2 An Internet search for Inhaca Restruante Lucas reveled that
Lucas’s restaurant is still in business and remains popular on
Inhaca.
want to catch a marlin,” I said.
“Sure,” I answered, “like what?”
“The season for marlin begins in September, sometimes August,” Lucas said. “But this time of year the
king fish, wahoo and cuda are caught.”
“We’ll take a short cut to the hotel.”
The cook called to him and Lucas turned to the business of serving dinner. Even now, 14 years after
that night at Lucas’s, I remember the delicate aromas of dinner being prepared on the wood fire. He
had rolled the fillets in a blend of flour and coconut
shavings and fried them quickly so they were golden
brown and the sweetness of the fish was locked
inside3.
The next day, Monday, May 29, was our last full day
of fishing. We were on the water by 9 a.m. and as
we cruised around the island to fish the ocean side
Carolee’s bait was inhaled by a large king fish only
minutes after Louwrens had poured the better part of
a beer in the water, his daily offering to King Neptune. By noon each of us had caught several nice
fish for the cooler. Louwrens turned the boat toward
the island and we cruised into the bay of the Marine
Reserve for a shore lunch. We would clean and grill
one of the morning’s fish.
Two young men materialized from the sand dunes
and we learned they were guards for the reserve
and they had come to check our camp. We invited
them to join us for lunch and in return, before we
left, they took us on a tour of their part of the island
and served us tea in the small boma that surrounded
their thatch home. We learned they hadn’t been paid
for six months but they stayed on their job because
they knew it was important. Louwrens promised to
make some inquires among his government contacts
about getting them paid. 4
Hell’s Gate
In mid-afternoon King Neptune shut the fishing off
and we knew it was time to quit. Our trolling had
taken us farther south than we anticipated and by
the time we were opposite the northern point of the
Machangulo Peninsula it was late afternoon.
“Everyone want some excitement?” Louwrens asked.
3 It is interesting that coconut battered seafood has become
popular throughout the country although in the early 1990s it was
nearly unheard of. Did it migrate from Southern Africa to the rest
of the world as by product of the surge in African tourism, much
as the popularity of American backyard fire pits, resembling the
African braai have become popular in the same time period?
4 Several months later I learned from Rocco that their efforts
had been successful and the two young men were paid and they
had begun receiving regular shipments of food rations and been
outfitted with uniforms.
“I think the boat is a little heavy to carry,” I said.
“No,” Louwrens said, grinning like a pixilated leprechaun, “through Hell’s Gate.”
“What’s Hell’s Gate?”
“That,” Louwrens said, pointing it out as we crested
an ocean swell. At the top of each swell we could
see a very narrow opening between Inhaca Island
and the tip of the peninsula. “It’s called Hell’s Gate.
It’s where the bay and the Indian Ocean crash into
each other. The tide is good now and we can go
through there—maybe.”
“What’s the maybe?” Carolee asked.
“Not easy and not everyone makes it,” Louwrens
said.
I looked at Rocco, he was helping Mike put the tackle
away and by the way he was doing it I knew the decision had been made. “So, do you know how to get
through it?”
Louwrens laughed again, and said he did, and then
he added we, meaning myself and Carolee, should
put on our life jackets. He was maneuvering the boat
closer to the island. “It’s what is called a tidal surge,”
Louwrens said in a matter-of-fact tone.
“I know what a tidal surge is,” Carolee said, moving
to stand beside me and look over the boat’s windscreen. “You ever go through this one?”
Louwrens looked at her and said he had, once. “It’s
scary and you’ll see the wrecks of boats that didn’t
make it. You going to put your life jackets on?”
I looked at the crashing bodies of water between the
rocks of what I later learned is Ponta Torres and the
southern tip of Inhaca. Each time they collided spray
shot into the air. I asked Louwrens how wide the
opening was.
“About five hundred yards.”
“How deep is the water?”
“I don’t know,” Louwrens said. I suppose it is on a
chart but we don’t have time to look.”
I was quiet for a few second then said, “No.”
“No what?”
“If you screw it up and we crash into the rocks what
are the chances we’d survive?” I asked, staring
sternly at Louwrens.
Cutting fille
ts from th
Leaving from Pemba at dawn
ach fire
Friends at a Pemba be
e cleaned
fish
He laughed and said, “Not much.”
“Then I guess we don’t need life vests do we?”
Louwrens laughed again. Rocco moved up so he could
stand with us and Mike stayed in the back of the boat to
make sure nothing was tossed over the side. Louwrens
explained that he would cruise back and forth, just outside the gate until he could catch a wave and then he’d
turn the boat, push the motors to full throttle to get up on
the crest of the surge and ride it over the rocks and into
the water of the bay. “We’ve got to be on top of the wave
not surfing it or the water will crash down on us and drive
the boat down, the bow under the wave and the next
wave will flip us.”
No one answered. We held on while Louwrens cruised
back and forth, fifty yards from the gate, careful not to get
caught by the wave and forced into the gate before he
was ready. Suddenly, without warning, Louwrens pushed
the throttles to their limit and spun the wheel, turning the
CM II hard in the water. He climbed up the surging wave
until he was on top and we heard the props begin to cavitate as they clawed at the disappearing water. Just as
fast as he had pushed the throttles open he pulled back,
letting the stern of the boat settle slightly in the water but
maintaining the CM II’s precarious position near the top,
but on the backside, of the onrushing surge of water.
bique flag
e Mozam
h and th
mba beac
Pe
As we were carried toward and then into the gate, for
a brief few seconds, the shattered hulks of two fishing
boats that hadn’t cleared the rocks were visible before
they disappeared behind the crashing water. Ahead of us
we could see the spray of the two bodies of water colliding in a massive collision of energy.
Suddenly we felt the water begin to fall away from under
us and Louwrens pressed the throttles again, pushing
the CM over the crest of one mass of water and across
the narrow opening of the two and onto the water that
was the surge of water from the bay. There was a tremendous spray of water that fell around and on us and
just as quickly we rushed into the calm waters of Maputo
Bay. The entire experience, from the time he’d gunned
the motors until we slid into the bay had lasted less than
a minute. We laughed crazily because we’d made it. I
turned loose of the windscreen’s frame and walked to the
back of the boat. As the rush of adrenalin drained from
my body I felt tired. Louwrens was standing easily, casually, the concentration on every detail had been routine
for him and taken nothing unusual from him.
Another isla
nd
The cruise to the hotel was quiet. That night the hotels’
manager, Edwardo, hosted us to dinner and ordered the
hotel’s chef to prepare a special meal for us. The following morning we returned to Maputo, loaded the boat and
drove to South Africa. Another adventure was ending.
Inhassoro
In time everything changes. We could feel the changes sweeping over Mozambique. The year before,
when we drove to Maputo with the CM II in tow we still
had to drive around a few large potholes but now we
could make the entire drive over a four-lane highway
without weaving. In Maputo, Louwrens refilled the
Land Cruiser’s fuel tanks then filled the extra fuel containers for the boat. Once again we had to go through
the fishing permits drill but this time there were no
“extra fees” and all was finished in minutes.
We spent the night in Maputo with a friend who had a
walled courtyard where the boat could be parked. Dinner was to be in one of Maputo’s best known and long
lasting night spot restaurants—the Piri-Piri on Avenue
de Julho. The restaurant was packed with revelers,
mostly Europeans who were rediscovering Maputo, so
we ate outside at a sidewalk table and when an artist
came by I bought his highly stylized oil cloth paintings.
The next morning we drove north, stopping once in
the afternoon to refuel before we reached our destination—Inhassoro, then 15 km farther to the Hotel Seta.
After checking in with the hotel’s manager, a beautiful
and well educated local woman who had returned to
her home after the fighting ended; we moved our gear
into our chalet then pulled the boat down to the beach.
Because of the tides and long, gentle slope of the
beach, to launch the CM II we hired a tractor, hooked
the boat trailer to the tractor, and then backed the boat
into the water. Once it was floating free the boat trailer
was pulled back to the chalet and chained to a tree.
On our second day, while taking a break from fishing, I was sitting at a table sheltered by a massive
and ancient mahogany tree when I heard my name.
Eduardo, the manager of Hotel Inhaca when we had
stayed there the year before, was walking toward me.
We shook hands and he sat down.
“What are you doing here, at the Hotel Seta?” he
asked.
“We’re fishing of course. Today Rocco is in town with
Carolee buying provisions but Louwrens and Mike are
in the chalet.”
“Get them!” Eduardo said briskly, “I’ll meet you in the
bar and I’ll buy the beer.”
Edwardo brought us up to date on Mozambique’s
changes and his promotion to general manager of a
new lodge on Bazaurto Island.
“Come over tomorrow,” Edward said, ‘I’ll treat all of you
to lunch.”
ch and sky
Our first island
after Pemba
Pemba bea
The promise was made and after another round of
beer Eduardo went off to catch his water taxi to the
island. We kept our appointment to visit the island
and toured the new lodge. On a wall was an old
photograph of a fisherman with a giant marlin.
“This will bring them back,” Rocco said, pointing to
the picture.
“The fish?” I asked.
“Yes, Galen, the fish and stories about the fish,”
Rocco said, dryly.
The next day, after we’d returned from fishing, one
of the local fishermen delivered a burlap sack of
lobsters to the chalet and we cooked them in a pot
of water we boiled over an open fire. There were
too many for us to eat and the extras Louwrens
put in a cool box then he packed it with ice.
The world around us changes and we change as
well. The following year my trip to Africa was cancelled at the last minute. So much of what defined
me began to change in ways I didn’t understand.
My brothers began dying of the diseases from exposure to Agent Orange and my doctor warned me
that my health was beginning to crack.
Now, with the diseases progress seemingly an unavoidable rush not so different from the onrushing
water of Hell’s Gate, in my living room I enjoy the
wooden masks, spears and trophies from my African trips. Hanging among these treasures are the
paintings I bought on the sidewalk outside the Piri
Piri. They are framed and behind protective glass
and when I look at them I never fail to be carried
back to the sultry heat of that night, the nights that
followed and those before it.
So often when I remember those nights and the
adventures I also remember Rocco standing on
the beach at ilha de Ibo, his arms folded, and his
wind breaker whipping in the wind. He was looking out to sea and as if to wonder if it would last.
Where he stood and we cooked on the beaches
there are lodges and resorts. You can go there
and try to capture what Rocco saw and felt and
maybe you’ll find a Hell’s Gate of your own.
View of Pe
mba bay
Tom
n ey
e on
keep
ing a
Rocc
o
Carrying gear from the
island
Galen L. Geer is
a former United
States Marine
Drill Instructor and
Vietnam veteran.
A professional
outdoor hunting,
shooting and gun
writer, he published 2000 magazine articles. He has
been a contributing editor to Soldier of
Fortune magazine for thirty years and is
the author of seven books.
The Parable of the Warth
hog and the Wildebeest
I
t was very quiet. The light northwestern
breeze carried my scent away from the game
path which the animals usually used en route
to the dam for their afternoon drink.
The clean, warm smell of the African savannah filled
my nostrils: camelthorn resin, grass and cool fresh air.
In the distance the Amatako hills stood tall.
Today, I would shoot my first wildebeest. Please God, I
prayed, I am fed-up with warthogs. You made them so
stupid and easy to shoot.
Send me a big wildebeest today.
I have been sitting quite motionless in a large Shepherd’s Tree tree for the better part of five hours. I moved
a little, my right leg numb with pins and needles. A tiny,
scarlet-chested sunbird bird flew to within an arm’s
length and burst into song, turning its little head from
side to side to have a better look at me.
To be sure, I was dressed up for the occasion. My khakis
were garnished with an impala hide vest (tail and hair
intact), a kudu hide hunting belt (tail and hair intact) and
elephant leather hunting boots. A powerful, state-of-theart, camouflaged compound hunting bow rested on the
branch in front of me, my gloved right hand gently tugging at the string. I felt like a double-tailed Davey Crocett, and I am in Africa to hunt.
A tiny movement caught my eye, and the grey, the squat
shapes of a warthog became vaguely visible through the
undergrowth.
Those who do not hunt can never know the feeling of the hunter who sees a wild animal up close. I
struggled to keep calm, my heart drumming violently
in my head, adrenaline surging through my veins. He
sniffed loudly where I had walked earlier the morning, decided that I was long gone and crawled under
the fence.
Warthogs, like most game, have remarkable senses
of smell, hearing and sight. Everything is seen in
monochrome and movement is relied upon to identify
potential danger. Standing less than twenty metres
away, he looked directly at me. The slightest flutter
of an eyelid or the tiniest movement would send it
hurtling through the entrance after which it would find
a safer place for a drink and a mudbath. It tossed it’s
head and moved a little closer.
I held my breath, peering through hooded eyes.
The first warthog was a big boar. He was built like
a Staffordshire Bull Terrier and boasted two pairs of
long, yellow, razor sharp tusks which curled out of his
mouth. His unlovely countenance was adorned with
huge warts. He snorted, tossed his head and started
walking toward the dam.
No way, I thought. I asked for a wildebeest. I won’t
be distracted that easily.
His companion, a sow, followed with only a casual
glance in my direction. The sow started to roll in the
mud to dispose of ticks and other parasites on her
wrinkly grey skin. The boar stared at her body covered by sticky brown mud. Hubba hubba, he thought,
walked towards her and rested his chin seductively
on her back.
She arched her back provocatively and started walking away slowly with his snout pressed firmly against
her rump, presumably to entertain him in a more
romantic spot.
I smiled and watched them disappear behind the
bush. I considered some of the stories Oom Soon,
the owner of the farm, had told us about warthogs.
A certain irate boar stuck his tusks into the leg of a
laborer and almost severed it. Another dispatched
posthaste Oom Soon’s finest hunting dogs, leaving
three disemboweled and one bleeding to death in the
dust.
It was about 2 hours later that I saw him. This one
was BIG. Much larger than the previous boar, this
warthog was a keeper. His neck was thick and his
head looked like the front of a grey bulldozer.
On the other side of the pan he stood and looked out
for danger, sniffing the wind with his nose held high.
He turned to offer me his side.
My instincts took over and I drew the compound bow
to its full 70-odd pounds, my sight finding the area
where the heart-lung cavity would be. The movement
caught his eye and he looked up at me, unsure if
there was danger. I froze and waited, my arm trembling under the power stored in the limbs of the bow.
He looked away and I let the arrow fly.
The precision-made arrow, tipped with four razoredged blades, flew forward at 280 feet per second.
He saw me the moment I let the arrow fly, and in that
split-second bunched his muscles to run.
But it was too late. With a meaty thwack the arrow
entered where I aimed, entering high on the right
shoulder and angling down through the vital area.
He turned and I heard the arrow being sheared off
as the powerful shoulder blade moved over the ribs.
At full speed, and still unsure of the cause, he ran 10
meters, turned and looked at me one last time and
disappeared into the bush
But that was not all that happened.
As I released the arrow, I heard the thunder of animals that exploded into movement below me.
Looking over my shoulder I saw a small herd of wildebeest rapidly disappearing into the bush, led by a
massive bull. It was the bull I wanted but would never
get. They had silently moved to right under my tree
but my focus on the warthog made me oblivious to
anything else.
I sat in my tree, stunned and disappointed. 30 Seconds would have made the difference.
30 Seconds of patience.
30 seconds of holding on a bit longer for that which I
asked for.
30 Seconds of faith.
Often we pray and wait, but are distracted by the
good thing and our impatience and lack of wisdom
make us miss out on the great thing.
Funny thing, but we never did find that big warthog.
I searched in vain and even had the best farm trackers come help me. Perhaps it was herd of wildebeest
that obliterated the
spoor or perhaps the
Mitch Mitchell
is a hunter,
pig disappeared down
outdoorsman
a hole, but at dusk
and the author
and after hours of
of several books
searching we gave up. on African wildlife and survival.
Action Hunting in Namibia
Experience real Hunting on Okondura
CLICK HERE to email
[email protected]
Phone (Office): + 264-62-503 968
Phone (Mobile): +264-81-128 5039
Gerd Liedtke
Professional Hunter & Outfitter
http://www.okondura.com
Koos Barnard
Bilharzia in Africa
River
Danger
Dr. G. Swart
Y
ou’re back from safari but you seem to always be tired, can’t concentrate, and feel
listless and sleepy. Your wife is fed up and
you can’t make it through meetings at work
without snoring. Remember cooling off in the
Zambezi while your PH kept the crocs away
with his .375 magnum? Remember walking
through that stream while tracking that trophy dagga boy? Good news, bud: it is not
only because you miss Africa and that you
are way over 40 that you are feeling this way.
When your PH slapped you on your back and said
that Africa becomes part of you, he meant it literally
and figuratively: Africa is not only in your heart - you
could be harbouring Africa’s common water-bourne
parasite in your bloodstream.
The African bush is a place of beauty, tranquility
and magnificence but is also home to some of the
worlds most deadly diseases. One of them, lurking in
streams, rivers and pools has a dark side to it which
could cause life-threatening complications. It is a
common, chronically debilitating and potentially lethal
disease affecting an estimated 200 million people,
half of whom live in Africa, with 600 million people
being at risk.
It is called Bilharzia or Schistosomiasis.
Schistosomiasis is most prevalent in sub-Saharan Africa. This infection occurs throughout the tropics and
sub tropics. It is endemic to 74 countries. Bilharzia
is a parasitic infection caused by Schistosoma blood
flukes.
caused by the death of cercariae upon skin penetration. The rash resolves spontaneously within 10 days
and is rare in endemic areas.
As the cercaria penetrates the skin it transforms into
a migrating schistosomulum stage. Here it stays in
Five species of Schistosoma infect humans:
the skin for a few days while locating a small vein
to transport it to the lungs of the human host. From
●● Schistosoma manhere migration to the liver
soni and Schistosoma
takes place.
Free-swimming Miracidia which enter the
intercalatum cause
intestinal schistosomiasis
snail by penetrating the snail’s foot.
●● Schistosoma haematobium causes
urinary schistosomiasis
●● S. mansoni and S.
japonicum relocate to the
intestine or rectal veins
●● Schistosoma japonicum and Schistosoma
mekongi cause Asian
intestinal schistosomiasis
Shistosoma flukes have a
complex life cycles involving specific freshwater snail
species as intermediate hosts. Bilharzia eggs are
released into the environment from infected individuals, hatching on contact with fresh water to release
free-swimming miracidium.
Miracidia infect fresh-water snails by penetrating the
snail’s foot.
Infected snails release
large numbers of small,
larvae called cercariae,
capable of penetrating the
unbroken skin of humans.
Even brief exposure to
contaminated water can
result in infection.
Cercariae emerge constantly from the snail host
in what is called a circadian rhythm. This is dependent on ambient temperature and light. Cercariae
are highly mobile and
can sink to maintain their
position in the water or swim upwards if stimulated
by water turbulence, shadows and by some chemical
substances found on human skin.
Cercariae secrete enzymes that break down human
skin and make penetration possible. “Swimmers itch”
occurs 1 day after penetration. It is an itchy rash
Juvenile worms from some
species develop oral suckers and the worms start
feeding on red blood cells.
Worms pair up and:
●● S. haematobium migrate from the liver to the
venous plexus of the bladder, ureters, and kidneys.
Worms reach maturity in
eight weeks, at which time they begin to produce
eggs. Adult worms may produce 300 to 3000 eggs
per day. Many of the eggs pass through the intestinal
or bladder wall into the feaces or urine.
Some eggs released by the worm pairs become
trapped in the veins, or will be washed back into the
liver, where they will become lodged. Worm pairs
can live in the body for an
average of four and a half
years, but may persist up
to 20 years.
A Bilharzia larvae
called a cercarium,
measuring about 500
micron
Trapped eggs mature normally, and elicit a vigorous
immune response. The
eggs themselves do not
damage the body but due
to the immune response
severe complications may
arise.
Symptoms
Schistosomiasis is a chronic disease. Many infections are asymptomatic, with mild anemia and malnutrition being common in endemic areas. Katayama
fever however is a rare but potentially lethal illness
occurring 1 to 3 months after the primary infection.
Symptoms include, fever, headache, chills, sweatJuly 2009 AFRICAN EXPEDITION MAGAZINE | 67
CLICK HERE
TO WATCH THE
ANIMATION
Schistosoma worms, males
measuring 10-15 mm in length
by 0,8-1 mm in diameter
Skin vesicles on the foot, created by
the penetration of Schistosoma
Urticaria in a man who
developed Katayama Syndrome
ing, diarrhoea, cough, enlarged liver and glands and
urticaria.
Clinical features of chronic Bilharzia include, fatigue,
abdominal pain, cough and diarrhoea. Various systems can be involved.
●● Lung disease: Fatigue, dizzyness and chestpain may develop due to embolizing eggs.
●● Liver disease: Abdominal distension, enlarged liver, fluid accumulation in the abdomen,
dilated bloodvessels in the oesophagus.
●● Intestinal disease: Embolizing eggs may
cause chronic inflamation of the large bowel,
bloody diarrhoea, anemia and rectal prolapse
●● Central nervous system disease: Epilepsy,
paraplegia and bladder dysfunction.
Typhoid bacteria may colonize the adult worms providing a source of recurrent typhoid attacks.
Diagnosis of Bilharzia is usually confirmed by serologic studies (a blood test) or by finding Bilharzia
eggs on microscopic examination of stool or urine.
Bilharzia eggs can be found as soon as 6-8 weeks
after exposure, but are not always detectable. Blood
test in the exposed, asymptomatic traveler should
ideally be performed 6-8 months following exposure.
Safe and effective drugs are available for the treatment of Bilharzia and your health care worker or
Family physician will prescribe medication which will
kill the adult Bilharzia worms.
How can I prevent Schistosomiasis?
●● Avoid swimming or walking in freshwater in
countries in which schistosomiasis occurs.
●● Drink safe water.
You should either boil water for 1 minute or filter
water before drinking it. Boiling water for at least
1 minute will kill any harmful parasites, bacteria,
or viruses present. Iodine treatment alone will
not guarantee that water is safe and free of all
parasites.
●● Heat your bath water for 5 minutes at 150°F.
Water held in a storage tank for at least 48 hours
should be safe for showering.
●● Vigorous towel drying after an accidental,
very brief water exposure may help to prevent
the Schistosoma parasite from penetrating the
skin.
You should NOT rely on vigorous towel drying to
prevent Bilharzia.
The host snail
Dr. Swart has
been involved
in Communicable disease
control since
2004 and is
an authority
on Malaria,
tropical and
infectious diseases in Africa.
click to email
Photo: Kobus Hugo
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B
Carolee Anita Boyles
ecky Johnston and I followed Professional
Hunter Chris Steyn up out of the river swamp
near Landela Lodge. A large herd of impala ran
ahead of us onto the veldt. At the very end of
the herd a nice ram hesitated, and Chris said to
Becky, “Shoot!” She did; the ram ran back into the
swamp and disappeared. Though neither Chris
nor I thought the ram had been hit, we walked to
where he had been standing and searched for any
trace of blood.
Fifteen minutes later Chris found a single red drop on a
blade of grass. After a long slow stalk along the river he
spotted the ram lying down, and anchored it with a shot to
the neck. It wasn’t a huge ram, but it was nice, and would
make a pretty mount.
Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you already
know that the number of women hunters has increased dramatically in the last fifteen years. We’re
finally getting some younger women into the field as
well, as many of the outdoorsy 20-somethings have
discovered the sense of accomplishment that goes
with taking an animal from the field to the table.
That enthusiasm for the hunt includes taking trips to
exotic locations to hunt. Until the last few years only
a few women went to Africa to hunt; today, if a male
hunter is planning a trip and his significant has anything to say, it’s likely to be “I want to go too!”
Fifteen years ago I had the privilege of accompanying two women on their first African hunt. Both of
these women were adventurous and not afraid to
try something different, and both were from hunting
families who supported their desire to take a trip to
Africa.
The hunt came about because of a conversation I
had with Rocco Gioia, owner of Caskett’s Ranch,
near Hoedspruit, South Africa. After a successful
hunt with him, I had asked him how he’d feel about
me coming back and bringing a hunting party of
women to the ranch. Though he seemed a bit skeptical, he agreed to give a women’s hunt a try, and
even offered a special rate for that first hunt.
The first person to commit to the hunt was Debbie
Holland, a schoolteacher from Levi, Utah. She confided that when her husband heard of the opportunity, he said that she must go. He was so insistent, in
fact, that he was willing for them to take out a small
loan to finance her trip.
For a while, I thought Debbie would be the only hunter who went. Then I received a letter from Becky
Johnston, whose husband Terry had seen mention of
the hunt in a letter to the editor of an outdoor magazine. She wrote that she worked at K-Mart, and
figured she probably couldn’t afford to go, but she
wanted to know all the details.
100 yards, or 1897 at 200 yards, which was farther
than either she or Becky was likely to shoot.
Becky preferred to shoot a 180-grain Winchester
Silvertip in her .30-06; her largest quarry would be a
gemsbok. That would generate 2436 foot-pounds of
energy at 100 yards; at 200, it would still be 2023.
Although neither of those calibers is suitable for
large or dangerous game, these women were on the
forefront of a trend that is becoming move common
today, as an increasing number of hunters are using
smaller calibers for plains game. I checked with
Rocco, and he felt comfortable about their choices.
I decided to take both my .25-’06 and my .375
H&H Magnum. With the .25-06 I’d be shooting the
100-grain hand loaded Nosler Ballistic Tips I’d been
using for southern whitetails, which generated 2055
foot-pounds of energy at 100 yards and 1740 at 200
yards. If I stuck to deer-sized and smaller animals
with the .25-’06 I should be all right; I’d use the .375
for anything larger.
Caskett’s Ranch, where we would be hunting, was
at the edge of Kruger Park in the Eastern Transvaal
region of South Africa. Much of that area consists
of dryland thornveldt, but the Klaserie River runs
through it, and provides a river swamp with plenty
of habitat for bushbuck. Debbie and Becky would
do some riding around and spotting game, but most
of their hunting would be on foot or sitting at waterholes.
I reached Caskett’s Ranch several days before Debbie and Becky arrived in South Africa. I wanted to
hunt a really big warthog, and a couple of the small
things, preferably duikers. I also wanted a blesbok,
but since the leopards ate all the blesbok at Caskett’s, I’d have to go elsewhere for that before Becky
and Debbie arrived.
Rocco sent me down to J. “Shorty” Durand’s ranch
in the Free State with Professional Hunter Andrew
Hogg. The hunting at Shorty’s was considerably
different from that at Caskett’s Ranch. Up at CasI called Becky and told her as much as I could about
kett’s the bush is fairly dense, which provides both
the hunt, including Rocco’s special rate. Then I
the hunter and the hunted with cover. A long stalk
asked if she’d like go.
on foot usually is the norm. But in the Free State the
She had only one question. “When do we leave?”
habitat is more grassy and open; consequently both
people and animals can see much farther, and the
I had my second hunter.
game is wild and wary as a result. Almost all shootOne of the first questions both Debbie and Becky
ing is done from a vehicle, because that’s the only
asked was “Do I have to shoot a big gun?” Debbie
way a hunter can get close enough for a shot. Even
wanted to shoot her .270 with a 150-grain Barnes
at that, it’s a challenge. We’re talking long shots
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largest animal she would try for would be a kudu.
As we drove around, I saw a lot of game. Many of
That would give her 2150 foot-pounds of energy at
the animals were common species: lots of blesbok
and springbok, and a huge herd of gemsbok, but
few impala. I saw some oddities, too, such as white
blesbok and black springbok.
A huge mixed herd of animals milled about together,
blesbok, gemsbok, red hartebeest and zebra. We
stirred them around a little with the vehicle and the
blesbok separated from the rest. Twice they stopped
less than 200 yards away and I got in position on
a nice ram. But the first time another animal was
standing behind the one I wanted, and the second
time a branch hung right in front of his shoulder.
They started off again and we followed. Most of the
herd crossed the road in front of us and the driver
went hard after them, driving right through the herd.
For a long moment I though the last few animals
were going to leap into and over us in their determination to stay with the herd. Then the last five turned
away from the road; we had successfully separated
them from the rest.
From that point on the hunt was fairly straightforward.
We followed the five animals—three red blesbok
and two white—around until we got them in an open
place about 85 yards away. I choose the biggest red
ram, centered the crosshairs on his shoulder and
squeezed the trigger. He dropped in his tracks.
When I got a good look at him I could see that the
bullet had broken his spine mid-way of his back.
Though it was a good shot, it was not the one I had
chosen. Since I had had a steady rest, and I’m
normally an accurate shot, I suspected the riflescope
had gotten bumped. A subsequent trip to the range
at Caskett’s proved my suspicion. Though I had
checked the rifle when I first arrived in Africa, all the
riding around on the veldt had caused the zero to
shift high and to the left.
A few days later, Debbie and Becky arrived. Before
they ever got into the field at Caskett’s, I had a feeling that hunting with them would be interesting. The
first night at dinner Debbie told us that when they
got to the airport in Johannesburg, Becky’s luggage
didn’t appear. After they had waited almost an hour,
baggage handlers finally found her suitcase and gun
case at the very back of the baggage compartment.
Then at Customs, Debbie couldn’t get her gun case
open. After struggling with it, she turned to Becky
and said, “If there were three of us, we’d be the
Three Stooges.” Becky replied, “Just wait a while.
Maybe there will be.” All of us at the table nearly
fell out of our chairs laughing. I couldn’t tell if I was
Larry, Moe or Curly.
The next afternoon, Rocco took Debbie out for a ride, to get her
acquainted with the ranch and maybe to stalk an animal. When
they came back a couple of hours later, Debbie was rattled.
She said that while they were driving Rocco saw an animal,
stopped the bakkie, and said, “Get out and shoot that.”
“What is it? It’s not on my list of animals,” she replied.
“I don’t care. I want you to have it. Shoot it!” he told her.
So she did.
Both she and her .270 performed flawlessly, and she
dropped a lovely bushbuck ram right where he stood.
Even before I saw him, I was envious. A bushbuck
is a notoriously hard animal to get; they’re cautious
and wary and hide in the densest river swamps
they can find. To get one on your first trip is remarkable; to get one on your very first afternoon
of hunting is unheard of. To make things even
better, Debbie’s ram was absolutely perfect. It
didn’t have so much as a nick in either one of
its ears from fighting.
For the next two days Debbie walked around
saying, “But it wasn’t on my list. I wasn’t
supposed to shoot it.” Only after close to
a dozen people had said, “You shot what?
On your first afternoon hunting??!” did she
realize what incredibly good fortune she
had had.
But after that, both Debbie’s and Becky’s
luck seemed to run out. Rocco and Debbie
couldn’t get on a kudu, and Becky couldn’t
get even an impala. Professional Hunter
Chris Steyn took Becky on long walks for three
consecutive days without her getting a single
animal.
On the fourth day, Chris and Becky and I walked
up her impala. Then when we got back to the
lodge with Becky’s ram, we found that Debbie also had gotten an impala while hunting with
Rocco. We thought their luck had changed.
But the next two days were just frustration. Neither Rocco nor Chris could get Debbie on a kudu,
or Becky on anything. Becky had decided against
trying to take a gemsbok, since that would mean a trip
down to Shorty’s; she was going to try for a waterbuck
instead.
On the last day of the hunt, Rocco sent Becky and Debbie to a neighboring ranch with a different Professional
Hunter to see if they could get at least a kudu for Debbie
there. Chris took me to yet another ranch for a day of bowhunting, where I sat and worried about Becky and Debbie
all day.
I need not have been concerned. When I got
back to the ranch at the end of the day and
called out to the two of them, they greeted me
with shrieks of excitement. Not only had Debbie taken her kudu, she had gotten a huge
warthog and a big waterbuck as well.
Becky was equally ecstatic. She had killed
a very nice waterbuck, one even bigger than
Debbie’s.
That night I raised a glass of wine in a toast
to both of them, and to Rocco. The three
of them had proven my point: women can
go to Africa on safari, and don’t have to
spend a fortune or shoot a big-bore rifle
to do it.
After Debbie and Becky left, I spent a
few more days in Africa, at Songimvelo Game Reserve with some friends
of mine. Though Songimvelo allowed
hunting, the philosophy there was quite
different than on a commercial ranch.
Since the Swazi people who lived around
the Reserve gave up part of their land to create it, when they needed meat for the pot they
received animals hunters killed.
While I was there, they needed meat. That
meant I got a chance to hunt another blesbok.
Hannes Marais, an anti-poaching officer and a
good friend of mine, took me out. We drove into
a little valley where we could see seven animals
spread out below us, some standing, some lying
down.
Carolee Anita
Boyles has
been to Africa
four times and
has been writing
about hunting and fishing
since 1981.
She currently
lives in Tampa, Florida with her son,
Chris, and two golden retrievers.
He picked out a nice big ewe, old enough, he said, to be past reproductive age. I made a short stalk to within perhaps 125 yards,
sat down, took a good rest, and shot.
It should have been simple. She should have gone down in just a
few yards. I knew I had hit her well in the heart/lung area; I’d chosen that instead of a shoulder shot to keep from ruining meat. All
seven of the blesbok ran, and the ewe showed no sign of having
been hit. But she ran behind the others, sort of by herself.
The ewe went up the hill opposite us and we followed, so we were
in the valley.
“Shoot it again,” Hannes said. Then, “Wait. It feels bad,” as she
lay down.
We started toward her. She got up and walked over the crest of
the hill. I couldn’t quite get on her to take another shot.
Hannes sent the game scout who was with us over the hill far to
our left. In theory, the ewe should have seen him and popped
back over to our side. But nothing happened.
Finally we walked over ourselves. The game scout was way
down in the next valley, and he motioned to us that the blesbok
was just a little down from us.
We started down and almost walked over her. She jumped up
and trotted into the thorn trees. But she was moving toward the
game scout, and I wasn’t about to risk a shot under those conditions. Then Hannes pointed him out to me; he had moved up
the hill so he was more or less behind us, well out of any danger
from my shot. I took a quick, mid-body shot on the ewe at about
75 yards. She walked a little farther and lay down. Though she
was still and made no more attempts to get up, she continued to
breathe for several more minutes.
When we examined her, we could see that my first shot had been
perfectly placed. It went right through the lungs, just a little above
the heart. It was a shot that would have flattened a whitetail.
But on the blesbok, the bullet had gone through the ribcage and
lodged just under the skin without putting her down.
The other animals I was to take were quite a bit larger than the
blesbok, so I switched to the .375. After fairly routine stalks—if
anything in Africa ever can be called routine!—I took a zebra stallion and a nice waterbuck. Subsequent measurements confirmed
that my waterbuck--which I took on my last day in Africa--was the
largest one taken at Songimvelo until that time. It was a small
fact which pleased Hannes greatly.
Looking back from a distance of 15 years, I recall that hunt as
the best one I ever had in Africa. Watching Becky and Debbie
live out a dream they never thought they would get to experience
reminded me that the difference between a dream and reality is,
simply, a plan. And as more and more women make that plan to
experience Africa, ranches and Professional Hunters who cater to
women are going to see their clientele continue to increase in the
years to come.
Destinations
Central Kalahari
T
he chill of evening came just after a burnt-orange and
indigo sundown. It is that kind of cold that gets in your
bones - and it only gets worse when the jackals call to each
other in the distance. The millions of stars in the milky way
above seem just above head height. It feels as if you could
pick them like buffalo thorn berries - but they would prick
your fingers and draw blood if you tried.
The wood for the fire was collected during the day and we met no other
car or person all day. Looking around cautiously for predators, we cut
and dragged the logs to the camp. We saw only Gemsbuck, Springbuck
and vast open spaces.
Johan and Oom Koos share a joke and Kobus turns the venison boerewors on the coals. A good Cape Merlot fills my glass and the fire throws
sparks heavenward and warms my cold feet.
Freedom. Wilderness. Friendship. Africa.
We left South Africa early the previous Saturday and
slept over at Mopipi. The water leaked in Kobus’
trailer and their clothing and sleeping bags were wet
and freezing cold.
All that night, the lions roared and the jackals called
close by. After that, the border post at Kopfontein,
then Gaberone, Metsimothlabe, Mokgopeetsane,
Molepole, Lethlakeng, Kudumelapje and through the
gate at Khutse, our last stop for water.
Here in the Central Kalahari, Change is sweeping
through an ancient way of life like the restless, bitter
wind that scatters sand and pierces sun-soaked days
in the Kalahari Desert. The Bushmen of southern Africa have hunted and foraged here for thousands of
in the endless savannah. Now, as then, this diminutive, nomadic people are tied unrelentingly to the
land and age-old skills of hunting and foraging.
We saw none of them in the vastness.
We spend our first night at Moreswe after 60 kilometers or so on sandy roads in the park.
Today I sit on top of the African Expedition pickup
with my Canon and try to absorb in the overwhelming sense of vast space around me. Kobus is driving
like he’s late for a meeting and next to me my friend
Johan chats non-stop, a cold Heineken in his hand
and a wide smile on his face.
He slaps me on the back every so often to emphasise a point or to make sure I get a joke. We talk
about God, family, friends and Africa. He laughs at
some of my answers, gives me some eland biltong
made by Oom Koos and passes me another beer.
Those of you with the cushy high-pressure, highlypaid management jobs: you don’t know what stress
is and how much we really suffer.
Yep, life certainly is tough in Africa.
Travel in Botswana
Visa
Citizens of 67 countries, including Australia, Canada,
the UK, and the US, do NOT require a visa. For
citizens of other nations, a visa must be obtained
prior to arrival. As of February 2009, a visa from the
Botswana embassy in Washington costs US$107;
for more information and a complete list of countries which do/don’t require visas, see: http://www.
botswanaembassy.org//index.php?page=visaconsular.
By plane
Botswana’s main airport is Sir Seretse Khama in
Gaborone. Most flights arriving in Botswana are from
Johannesburg in South Africa. (There are no international flights besides South Africa and Zimbabwe.)
The airport in Maun can also be reached via Johannesburg or Gaborone. The distance between Gaborone and Maun - a wildlife tourism attraction spot - is
more than 1000km.
By train
Trains to/from South Africa have been withdrawn
since 1999. A rail link runs from to and from Bulawayo, Zimbabwe was due to be started in April 2006,
but was delayed. The present state of this service
is unknown (which was to be operated by National
Railways of Zimbabwe), especially since Botswana
Railways stopped the last domestic passenger service in April 2009.
By car
There are several entry points by road to Botswana:
In the south at Gaborone, providing access from
Johannesburg; in the west providing access from
Namibia; the north providing access from Namibia,
Zambia and Zimbabwe; and at Francistown in the
east, providing access from Harare. All road access
is good and the primary roads within Botswana are
paved and well maintained.
Coming from Namibia, you can either go north to
Maun, or south along the Trans-Kalahari Highway to
Lobatse.
By bus
There is a regular bus service from Johannesburg
to Gaborone, which takes six hours. There is also
service from Windhoek, Namibia via the Caprivi
Strip which will drop you in Chobe National Park, in
northern Botswana. There is also bus service from
Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe. See Intercape Mainliner
for information on service from Namibia and Zimbabwe. Private shuttles ran until 2004 from Windhoek
directly to Maun and in late 2005, such a service was
starting up again.
Transport
Through a combination of coaches, combies and
trains, you can get anywhere in Botswana without
any trouble, though public transport is spotty away
from big cities and major axes but hitchhiking is popular and very easy. However, hitchhiking should only
be done in desperate circumstances, as Botswana
driving is often very erratic and it can be a harrowing
experience to have a stranger drive you somewhere.
It is advisable to arrive at the bus station quite early,
as the busses do fill up quickly, and it is not uncommon to spend several hours standing in the aisle
waiting for a seat to free up (remember to bring water, as the buses are often not air conditioned).
these in conversation will make people very happy.
By car
Botswana’s currency is the Pula; 100 Thebe = 1
Pula. In Setswana, pula means “rain” and thebe
means “shield.” Rough conversions are 5:1 (USD)
6:1 (EUR), 10:1 (GBP) and 1:1.3 (South African
Rand).
The roads are paved and well maintained, so travel
by car is also not a problem, provided that one keeps
a close eye out for the cows, donkeys and goats that
spend much time in the middle of the road.
The Trans-Kalahari Highway is an old cattle route,
now newly paved and easily drivable with a 2-wheel
drive. It runs from Lobatse to Ghanzi in Botswana,
making the connection from Windhoek, Namibia to
Gaborone, Botswana.
It is a long and uneventful drive, but you get a good
feel for the Kalahari Desert. Fuel is available in Kang
at the Kang Ultra Shop, which also offers a respectable selection of food, overnight chalets, and inexpensive camping.
By bus
There are many bus companies in Botswana. One
of the biggest is Seabalo. From Gaborone you can
travel by bus to any bigger city in Botswana.
By train
Botswana Railways operates Botwana’s railways.
The main line goes from Lobatse, near the South
African border, via Gaborone to Francistown at the
Zimbabwean border. However, effective April 1,
2009, all passenger services have been withdrawn.
Language
The language of business in Botswana is English
and most people speak it, although in the more rural
areas many people do not speak English, particularly the older generations. The primary indigenous
tongue is Setswana, and is the mother tongue of
the overwhelming majority of the population. It is not
difficult to learn basic greetings and such, and using
Setswana- Hello – Dumela (Dumela Rra- pronounced borra - when addressing men, Dumela
Mma- pronounced bomma- when addressing women)
Currency
Sleep
Most of the accommodation establishments in Botswana are located near the larger towns and cities, but there are also many secluded game lodges
tucked away in the wilderness areas.
Stay safe
People in Botswana are very friendly and the crime
rate is low. Nevertheless, crime has been on the rise
over the past several years, so always be aware of
your surroundings. Basic common sense will keep
you safe from the predatory wildlife in rural areas.
Stay healthy
Botswana’s HIV infection rate, estimated at 24.1%,
is the 2nd highest reported in the world. Exercise
regular universal precautions when dealing with any
bodily fluid and remain aware of this high rate of
infection. Take precautions accordingly. Wear rubber
gloves when dressing someone else’s cut, even if
they are a child - and unless you have a death wish,
NEVER, EVER HAVE UNPROTECTED SEX. If you
form a serious relationship, you had both better get
an HIV test before taking things further.
The northern part of Botswana, including Chobe
National Park and the Okavango Delta is in a malaria
zone, so it is advisable to take the relevant precautions.
Seek medical advice before travelling to these areas.
The drinking water is safe in urban areas unless
otherwise indicated.
The
Ancient
Craft
H
IT
W YK.
E
AD N W
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ST BY
04 G
20 VIN
IN A
W GR
O
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SH . E
E
T
L
ES D
W AN
E H
AD OD
L
B O
E W
TH ON
AT IR
R RT
E
E
NT ES
HU A D
ST ON
BE IZ
AR
I
t is impossible to imagine a world without knives. Without knives modern efficiency would disappear and we would be driven back to the
Stone Age. The humble knife has played an immense part in the history
and civilization of man. Knives are what define us as humans and we
are disadvantaged without it.
In ancient times the knife helped man hunt, eat and survive. Although knives
evolved with man, the basic structure of the knife has remained the same
over the ages.
In Western society, knives, apart from those with which we eat
and use in the kitchen, have lost their place as daily tools and
all but disappeared as weapons.
In modern times the knife has become more than just a
utility tool; it is a fashion item – gentlemen’s jewelry
and space age man appears to almost have a love
affair with knives and edged weapons. The aesthetic pleasure of owning one of man’s most
ancient of tools seems to have increased
as man’s practical need for a knife has
diminished.
The earliest South African knives
were made in 1797 by Christiaan Kuhnel at Genadendal, a
Moravian mission post high
in the Riviersonderend
mountains.
FOLDER WITH MAMMOTH IVORY HANDLE SLABS
AND STAINLESS DAMASTEEL BOLSTERS AND BLADE
FOLDER WITH 12C27 STAINLESS STEEL BLADE. COMPOSITE HANDLE :
ENGRAVED STAINLESS STEEL WITH BLACK LIP MOTHER OF PEARL AND
HIGH CARBON DAMASCUS INLAYS. THE MECHANISM FEATURES THE
BLADE RUNNING ON TINY BALL BEARINGS.
During the past 30-odd years, a small
group of enthusiasts brought the art of
knife making back to life in South Africa.
Influenced by the revival of the art in the United States
in the 1970’s, the Knife Makers’ Guild of Southern Africa
(KGSA) was established in 1980. It aims to bring knife makers
together at an annual show, to further the craft and to set standards
of excellence.
Knife makers can only become members after they have submitted five of their
personally handcrafted knives to the guild for evaluation. A panel of three experts
assesses the knives and a pass mark of 75% must be achieved before membership is
granted.
One such member is André Thorburn who became a professional knife maker after losing his job in
1993. Since early childhood he wanted to make knives and took the opportunity when he met Roelf Swanepoel in 1989 who introduced him to the art of knife making.
He sold his golf clubs and club cart and built his first belt grinder. He sold his first knife in 1990 to a friend.
He became a member of the Knife Makers Guild of Southern Africa in 1995 and since has been Chairman of
this prestigious organisation since 2007. He attends knife shows all around Europe and in the USA and has
met and has been influenced by some of the best knife makers in the world.
He believes that custom knives must be excellent in form and function and he tests and uses his own knives,
giving some to friends and family members to use and abuse to see how much his hand made knives can really take.
In 2001 he became a member of the German Knife Makers Guild and a member of the Italian Guild at the end
of 2004, attending the knife show in Milan in November every year. He was accepted as member of the American Guild in 2007.
Being a member of the four major Guilds in the world is a honour that he share with only a few other knife
makers. He won several awards at local shows as well as overseas shows.
NITRO BLUED HIGH CARBON DAMASCUS FOLDER MADE
BY ETTORé GIANFERRARI. WARTHOG TUSK HANDLES
SCRIMSHAWED BY SHARON BURGER
FOLDER WITH TWIST DAMASTEEL BLADE, ENGRAVED BOLSTER AND IVORY H
HANDLE SLABS
He attended engraving courses Emporia Kansas and Antwerpen and a further
Design and layout course with the GRS team in 2007.
He loves knives - and when passion and consulate skill meet, masterpieces are
created.
André will be joined by 50 other South African Guild members when they exhibit
their work at the annual Knife makers’ Guild Show to be held at the Mosaïek
Lifestyle Centre, Communion Exhibition Hall, Daniele Street off Davidson
Street in Fairland, Johannesburg.
The ancient craft of knifemaking is alive and well in South Africa.
Come and see for yourself at the show on 11th and 12th September.
You can contact Andre on Tel: 014 736 5748 or his wife Marietjie Thorburn the show organiser on Tel: 082 650 1441 for more details.
2010 Calendar
CLICK HERE
2010 Calendar
CLICK HERE
2010 Calendar
CLICK HERE
www.aftonguesthouse.com
click to email
CLICK HERE
For easy and hassle-free gun permits
or go to www.vipgunpermits.com
[email protected]
Your African hunting safari
is a unique experience.
Now you can document
your hunt day by day
and revisit those exciting times for years to
come.
31 Full days of journaling space with vital
information:
●● safari clothing
●● personal item
checklists
●● health and first
aid
●● mammal identification information
with photographs,
tracks, dung and
SCI and Rowland
Ward qualification
minimums.
Know how to administer
CPR. Deal with dangerous animals up close.
Identify and treat bites
from snakes, spiders
and scorpions. Know
the right emergency
numbers to dial in an
emergency – it’s all
there.
A must-have item for
every serious hunter.
Sturdy PlastiCoil binding
for durability and easy
opening, 110 pages, 6.0 x
9.0 in.
Full color covers and
cream interior printed in
black and white.
African Bush Cuisine
Impala Sosaties (Kebabs)
2 cloves garlic, crushed
2 kg leg of impala, deboned
1 and a half litres vegetable stock
32 dried apricots, soaked 2 onions, blanched and cut
into chunks
1ml cinnamon
Marinade 15 ml mustard powder 125 ml tomato
sauce 15 ml soy sauce 30 ml peach chutney 6 cloves
garlic, chopped salt and milled black pepper
salt & pepper to taste
Carefully cube impala flesh. Thread onto kebab
skewers or sticks, alternately with apricots (4 to a
skewer) and onion chunks.
Melt the margarine, add the onions and garlic and fry
till soft
MARINADE: Mix ingredients until smooth and marinate sosaties for at least 1 day. Remove from marinade and charcoal grill for approximately 6 minutes,
turning constantly.
Butternut Soup
1kg butternut, peeled, seeded and cubed
30ml margarine
2 onions, finely chopped
curry powder to taste
cream or natural yoghurt
Add the butternut and vegetable stock, bring to the
boil, turn down the heat and simmer till tender
Flavour with the curry powder, salt & pepper and allow to cool slightly
Liquidize or mash until smooth, reheat and serve
with a swirl of cream or yoghurt on top
Sweet Potato Mash
1kg Potatoes (Best varities for mash are red rose,
white rose, yukon gold, maris piper or King Edward)
100ml Cream
100g Butter
Salt and pepper
Pinch of nutmeg
Wash and peel the potatoes.
Cut the potatoes into even size pieces and place in a
pot full of cold water. Add a generous amount of salt
to the water.
Serve immediately.
Morogo
Marogo or Imfimo is a collective name used for
various leaves, some wild. They are usually cooked
fresh from the garden otherwise home-dries leaves
are used. Marogo has many variations with different
names and cooking methods.
1 large bunch marogo or spinach
1 onion chopped
Bring the potatoes to the boil. When they come to
the boil turn down so as they are simmering. Cook
for 25 minutes or until they are soft. Check if they are
cooked by inserting a small knife.
2 potatoes, peeled chopped and cooked
Remove the potatoes from the heat and staring ensuring that all the water has been strained off.
15ml (1t) margarine
Place the milk and cream into a small pot and heat
up until it has combined.
Place the morogo, onion and potatoes and water in a
medium sized pot, cover and cook for 10-15 minutes
until tender.
Add the butter and milk mixture to the potatoes and
mash until smooth using a hand masher or special
mashed potato machine. There should be no lumps
left.
Adjust the seasoning with the salt and pepper until
you are happy with the taste.
50ml water
1 green pepper, chopped (optional)
salt and pepper to taste
Add chopped green pepper , margarine, salt and
pepper and stir for 3 minutes until well combined and
cooked. Serve as a side dish with you the Impala
sosaties.
True North
A Nice Guy
And then, alas, there is the church. Christianity, as it
currently exists, has done some terrible things to men.
When all is said and done, I think most men in the church
believe that God put them on the earth to be a good boy.
The problem with men, we are told, is that they don’t
know how to keep their promises, be spiritual leaders,
talk to their wives, or raise their children. But, if they will
try real hard they can reach the lofty summit of becoming
. . . a nice guy.
That’s what we hold up as models of Christian maturity:
Really Nice Guys. We don’t smoke, drink, or swear; that’s
what makes us men. Now let me ask my male readers: In
all your boyhood dreams growing up, did you ever dream
of becoming a Nice Guy? (Ladies, was the Prince of your
dreams dashing . . . or merely nice?)
Really now—do I overstate my case? Walk into most
churches in America, have a look around, and ask yourself this question: What is a Christian man? Don’t listen
to what is said, look at what you find there. There is no
doubt about it. You’d have to admit a Christian man is . .
. bored.
At a recent church retreat I was talking with a guy in his
fifties, listening really, about his own journey as a man.
“I’ve pretty much tried for the last twenty years to be a
good man as the church defines it.” Intrigued, I asked
him to say what he thought that was. He paused for a
long moment. “Dutiful,” he said. “And separated from his
heart.”
A perfect description, I thought. Sadly right on the mark.

River Danger - African Expedition

Transcription

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