We traversed some queer country on our return to Dodose. All kinds were met with. We went thirty days on end without seeing an elephant, and in the succeeding four days I killed forty-four bulls….
That safari was one of my most successful. We “shuka’d,” or went down country, with over 14,000 lbs. of ivory – all excellent stuff.
The Wanderings of an Elephant Hunter W. D. M. Bell.
The long arm of government reaching out to the remotest regions put an end to the ivory hunters by restricting the number of elephants each man might shoot. Then came the white hunters, conductors of safaris paid for by rich men and women, most of whom killed for pleasure rather than profit. Some hunters collected specimens for museums, among them ex-President Theodore Roosevelt, who in 1909 embarked upon one of the most lavish expeditions of them all.
In the thirst the march goes on by day and night. The longest halt is made in the day, for men and animals both travel better at night than under the blazing noon. We were fortunate in that it was just after the full of the moon, so that our night treks were made in good light….
The wagons broke camp about ten, to trek to the water, a mile and a half off, where the oxen would be outspanned to take the last drink for three days; stock will not drink early in the morning nearly as freely as if the march is begun later. We, riding our horses, followed by the long line of burdened porters, left at half-past twelve, and in a couple of hours overtook the wagons. The porters were in high spirits. In the morning, before the start, they twice held regular dances, the chief musician being one of their own number who carried an extraordinary kind of native harp; and after their loads were allotted they marched out of camp, singing and blowing their horns and whistles. Three askaris brought up the rear to look after laggards, and see that no weak or sick man fell out without our knowing or being able to give him help.
The trail led first through open brush, or low dry forest, and then out on the vast plains, where the withered grass was dotted here and there with low, scantily-leaved thorn-trees, from three to eight feet high. Hour after hour we drew slowly ahead under the shimmering sunlight. The horsemen walked first, with the gun-bearers, saises [grooms], and usually a few very energetic and powerful porters; then came the safari in single file; and then the lumbering white-topped wagons, the patient oxen walking easily, each team led by a half-naked tribesman with frizzed hair and a spear or throwing-stick in his hand, while at intervals the long whips of the drivers cracked like rifles. The dust rose in clouds from the dry earth, and soon covered all of us; in the distance herds of zebra and haartebeest gazed at us as we passed, and we saw the old spoor of rhino, beasts we hoped to avoid, as they often charge such a caravan.
Slowly the shadows lengthened, the light waned, the glare of the white, dusty plain was softened, and the bold outlines of the distant mountains grew dim. Just before nightfall we halted on the further side of a dry watercourse. The safari came up singing and whistling, and the men put down their loads, lit fires, and with chatter and laughter prepared their food. The crossing was not good, the sides of the watercourse being steep, and each wagon was brought through by a double span, the whips cracking lustily as an accompaniment to the shouts of the drivers, as the thirty oxen threw their weight into the yokes by which they were attached to the long trek tow. The horses were fed. We had tea, with bread and cold meat – and a most delicious meal it was – and then lay dozing or talking beside the bush-fires. At half-past eight, the moon having risen, we were off again. The safari was still in high spirits, and started with the usual chanting and drumming.
We pushed steadily onward across the plain, the dust rising in clouds under the spectral moonlight. Sometimes we rode, sometimes we walked to ease our horses. The Southern Cross was directly ahead, not far above the horizon. Higher and higher rose the moon, and brighter grew the flood of her light. At intervals the barking call of zebras was heard on either hand. It was after midnight when we again halted. The porters were tired, and did not sing as they came up; the air was cool, almost nipping, and they at once huddled down in their blankets, some of them building fires. We, the white men, after seeing our horses staked out, each lay down in his overcoat or jacket and slicker, with his head on his saddle, and his rifle beside him, and had a little over two hours’ sleep. At three we were off again, the shivering porters making no sound as they started; but once under way, the more irrepressible spirits speedily began a kind of intermittent chant, and most of the rest by degrees joined in the occasional grunt or hum that served as chorus.
African Game Trails Theodore Roosevelt.
Comfort was the keynote of a safari conducted by Baron Bror von Blixen-Finecke, a popular white hunter between the wars, and consisting of Frederick Guest, his wife Amy, their two sons Winston and Raymond, and their daughter Diana. There were also two assistant white hunters, a transport manager, a flight mechanic in charge of a seven-seater aeroplane, and fifty Africans. Diana’s ambition was to shoot an elephant.
We got onto the first spoor quite close to the big waterhole in the cliffs, twelve miles from camp. That was the one we examined yesterday and found that three bulls had been drinking there. I myself didn’t think the tracks were particularly big, but Gondo (the tracker) was very enthusiastic. “One of them is the one that got away at the time when Mtoto ya Kingi was here,” he said, very sure of himself. Mtoto ya Kingi (son of the king) was the Prince of Wales. We got out, left the car and driver, and started tracking. We were now walking due south and the wind was from the north, so conditions couldn’t have been worse. However, Gondo was stubborn and wanted to continue. “They are not very close yet,” he said. “They are on the other side of that hill. When we get as far as that the sun will be overhead and the afternoon breeze always comes from the northwest,” so we ambled on.
You could only walk in the tracks, as the sansevieria was flattened and trampled down there and one would have been repeatedly pricked by its spikes. Nevertheless it was strenuous walking. One had to be on the alert all the time. If one happens to tread on one of the spikes, it can penetrate the sole of a shoe. The popular name “bayonet grass” is indicative of the damage it will cause when coming in contact with any part of the human body. It has been known to blind a man forever. You have probably seen them in other areas, a sporadic plant here and there, but around Kasigau they grow as densely as reeds. The natives also call them “the forts of the elephant,” a very appropriate expression. So this is why we had to proceed so slowly.
The sun climbed higher, gradually it became hotter, and the contents of the water bottles warmer. I glanced at Diana’s face, which had become pinker. “Go on, old boy, I’m okay!” Personally, I did not have much hope for today’s hunt. Yesterday had been so lucky and successful that a repeat performance seemed impossible. Gondo, however, was still on his toes and optimistic. He held an old sock in his hands half filled with flour, which he shook periodically to determine the direction of the wind. Suddenly he stopped, sniffed, and shook his sock. “Now the wind has turned and it will blow from this direction for the rest of the afternoon.” Behind the mountain the terrain is more open and nothing like as dense as where we were. “By the time it is four o’clock the bulls will graze there,” he added with great conviction. Optimism always helps. The heat was now suffocating and every step was an effort. Admittedly, the gunbearers walked in front and with their razor-sharp bush knives cut the worst sansevieria leaves, but even so we couldn’t avoid being pricked now and then.
Suddenly, without anybody having expected it, we heard the familiar sound of elephant ears flapping against a body and then some puffing, probably not more than a hundred yards away. All fatigue immediately vanished. Gondo carries my .505 and Juma Diana’s .350. Gondo leads, then myself, Juma, and Diana. We produce our secateurs, the only instrument I know of that can silently cut off sansevieria and protruding branches. The wind remains steady and we creep slowly and carefully forward. Now we hear more flapping of the ears, and the occasional snorting
seems to indicate he is half asleep. We are now so near that we can hear the protests from the swarms of insects as they are swept away by the enormous ears. A few steps more, extremely slowly and with bodies perfectly balanced. A gray shadow moves over there, slightly to our left. I shove Gondo to the side, push Diana in front of me, and take over her .350. Gondo is now behind me.
Any moment now the elephant should start coming in our direction. But he just stands there feeling safe within his fortress, to which there is no direct access. It is not yet four o’clock. Isn’t he soon going to start grazing down in the glade? The terrain couldn’t be worse; it is practically impossible to take a step to either side. Our way ahead looks like a description from the Middle Ages of a path of horror where the victim is forced to pass between rows of spears. Suddenly I realize that this is the worst possible place imaginable to take a young girl elephant hunting. How on earth could I have let myself get involved in a situation like this? I curse Gondo, silently but sincerely.
Now he moves again over there. He showers earth over neck and shoulders with his trunk and when he throws his head back he exposes a most magnificent pair of tusks high above the surrounding grass. All self-accusation immediately vanishes, life is beautiful and glorious, and Gondo is the most excellent man alive.
We are now only twenty-five yards from him, but the grass is very thick. In front of us and to the left there is a small tree exactly in the direction he is now taking. “High on the shoulder, when you see him,” I whisper, and hand her the .350 with the safety catch off. At the same time I automatically receive my rifle from Juma.
Diana knows exactly where to aim. We have sketched this on paper every night. She has only once been nervous, and that was when she thought she might not be allowed to come on this safari.
Now the tusks emerge from the bushes, there comes the head, and then the forelegs. Bang. With a heavy sigh the giant sinks to the ground with a broken back and folding hindlegs. But a fallen elephant can get up again, and we wait with rifles at the ready. Then comes the drawn-out trumpet call signalling the end. “Nakufa.” He is dead.
Bror von Blixen: The Africa Letters, ed. G. F. V. Kleen.
Another well-known white hunter was Denys Finch Hatton, even better known as the lover of Karen Blixen, Bror Blixen’s former wife.
A safari can be a misery if the organization is slapdash. Denys possessed a practical ability, the foresight to arrange expeditions that went off smoothly. Avoiding the unhappy results of haphazard packing he made it a rule to cover every eventuality without over-burdening the porters with loads of superfluous kit. He likened a safari to being marooned on a desert island: “Method maketh man”. He said “remember that the real secret of ordering stores is to know how long each tin of sardines, so to say, will last you. You have to work it out by the law of averages. These mathematics will teach you that one pound of tea lasts one man a fortnight … a one pound tin of marmalade will last the same man a week and ten days to finish a tin … of plum jam … the whole art of buying stores lies in being able to estimate the ‘life’ of a tin of sardines.”
No detail during Denys’s preparation for safari was too small. Tents were inspected for rents, missing ropes or poles, and had to be at least eight feet high “so that a man of some inches may stand straight in it and be at ease”. A tent bathroom he felt was “a most necessary annexe in which not only to bathe but to keep cameras, rifles and other dearer possessions”. His efficiency was motivated by a natural desire to have things running smoothly so that he could relax and enjoy himself fully. Forgetfulness was dangerous for “it is no unusual thing to arrive late in camp … too tired but for an impromptu meal…. But where is the tin opener? The tin opener is in Nairobi … though your servants can … open a tin given time … it will not be before your temper is fairly frazzled. It is easy to forget things”.
Silence Will Speak Errol Trzebinski.
Together with Bror von Blixen, Beryl Markham evolved the technique of spotting good tuskers from the air.
I think I am the first person ever to scout elephant by plane, and so it follows that the thousands of elephant I saw time and again from the air had never before been plagued by anything above their heads more ominous than tick-birds.
The reaction of a herd of elephant to my Avian was, in the initial instance, always the same – they left their feeding ground and tried to find cover, though often, before yielding, one or two of the bulls would prepare for battle and charge in the direction of the plane if it were low enough to be within their scope of vision. Once the futility of this was realized, the entire herd would be off into the deepest bush.
Checking again on the whereabouts of the same herd next day, I always found that a good deal of thinking had been going on amongst them during the night. On the basis of their reaction to my second intrusion, I judged that their thoughts had run somewhat like this: A: The thing that flew over us was no bird, since no bird would have to work so hard to stay in the air – and, anyway, we know all the birds. B: If it was no bird, it was very likely just another trick of those two-legged dwarfs against whom there ought to be a law. C: The two-legged dwarfs (both black and white) have, as long as our long memories go back, killed our bulls for their tusks. We know this because, in the case of the white dwarfs, at least, the tusks are the only part taken away.
The actions of the elephant, based upon this reasoning, were always sensible and practical. The second time they saw the Avian, they refused to hide; instead, the females, who bear only small, valueless tusks, simply grouped themselves around their treasure-burdened bulls in such a way that no ivory could be seen from the air or from any other approach.
This can be maddening strategy to an elephant scout. I have spent the better part of an hour circling, criss-crossing, and diving low over some of the most inhospitable country in Africa in an effort to break such a stubborn huddle, sometimes successfully, sometimes not.
But the tactics vary. More than once I have come upon a large and solitary elephant standing with enticing disregard for safety, its massive bulk in clear view, but its head buried in thicket. This was, on the part of the elephant, no effort to simulate the nonsensical habit attributed to the ostrich. It was, on the contrary, a cleverly devised trap into which I fell, every way except physically, at least a dozen times. The beast always proved to be a large cow rather than a bull, and I always found that by the time I had arrived at this brilliant if tardy deduction, the rest of the herd had got another ten miles away, and the decoy, leering up at me out of a small, triumphant eye, would amble into the open, wave her trunk with devastating nonchalance, and disappear….
Sometimes I circle a herd for nearly an hour, trying to determine the size of its largest bull. If at last I decide that he carries enough ivory, my work begins. I must figure the course from the herd to the hunters’ camp, reverse the course, jot it down on my pad, judge the distance, give details of terrain, warn of other animals in the vicinity, note water holes, and indicate safest approach.
I must find my smoke signal again, keeping an eye on the compass, a hand free for scribbling, and my course and distance calculator ready, should I need it. I feel triumphant when I can drop a note like this which Blix has returned to me and is still folded in my logbook:
Very big bull – tusks quite even – my guess over 180-pounder. In herd of about 500. Two other bulls and many babies in herd – grazing peacefully. Dense growth – high trees – two water holes – one about half-mile from herd NNE. Other about two miles WNW. Fairly open ground between you and herd, with open glade halfway. Many tracks. Large herd buffalo sw of elephant. No rhino sighted. Your course 220 degrees. Distance about ten miles. Will be back in one hour. Work hard, trust in God, and keep your bowels open – Oliver Cromwell.
Well Cromwell did say it, and it still makes sense.
All of it makes sense – the smoke, the hunt, the fun, the danger. What if I should fly away one morning and not come back? What if the Avian fails me? I fly much too
low, of necessity, to pick a landing spot (assuming that there might be a landing spot) in such a case. No, if the engine fails me, if a quick storm drives me into the bush and sansivera – well that is the chance and that is the job. Anyway, Blixi has told Farah and Ruta what to do if I am ever gone for a longer time than my supply of petrol might be expected to last – get to a telegraph by foot or lorry, and wire Nairobi. Maybe somebody like Woody would begin the search.
Nine Faces Of Kenya Page 43