Mhudi

by Sol T Plaatje

  I must reiterate that seeing the Big Five is not a scientifically accepted criterion for rating an area’s ecological productivity, nor is it everybody’s measure of a good game viewing experience, though it remains a recognised yardstick in the bush. In a sense, the Big Five give an impression, or rough gauge, of the ‘naturalness’ or ‘wildness’ of an area, particularly if they’re endemic and free-roaming. Some of our shareholders are getting even cheekier, having chalked up the Magnificent Seven. For the uninitiated, that’s the Big Five plus wild dog and cheetah!

  At the risk of sounding like a cautious investment advisor, I suggest that you ‘hedge’ your expectations and spread your viewing portfolio to include a spread from the many other fascinating aspects of Olifants. Don’t expect a Big Five return each time you invest in a game drive, because if you do, like the stock market, there are going to be times of little or no return, and in spite of my limited knowledge of things fiscal, I can make that prediction with a fair amount of certainty.

  Even for those of us whose wealth is measured in African sunsets, the Olifants stock market will always offer something of value, and just like the JSE, the harder you work on your investment, the more you’ll get out of it.

  ’Til Death Us Do Part …

  April 2004

  Besides the day-to-day running of Olifants River Game Reserve, as warden of the surrounding Balule private nature reserve, I am obliged to take care of conservation-related matters beyond Olifants’ boundaries. In some instances I am requested to respond to calls beyond Balule’s jurisdiction as well, although landowners within the Olifants region of Balule who need assistance are almost always given priority.

  Early one morning, I received a call from one of our neighbours saying he had come across an injured buffalo. He said it appeared to have a slight limp and thought it may have a snare on its back leg. As he was unable to confirm this for sure, he requested my help in checking it out, and then to advise him on what recommended course of action to take. I agreed and told him I’d be along as soon as I could, but I wasn’t too quick to assume the worst, knowing the man well, and also knowing from previous dealings that he can be an alarmist at times. He also has a penchant for embellishing a story with more than a coat of varnish when he needs to, particularly when it comes to injured or apparently abandoned young animals. Nevertheless, a report of a wounded buffalo is never to be taken lightly.

  I gathered what equipment I thought I might need, got into the Land Cruiser and drove off to meet him. I also took the opportunity to phone the authorities at the Department of Environmental Affairs and Tourism (DEAT) informing them of the possibly injured buffalo, and that I was on my way to investigate. Essentially, in my position as warden, this situation now became my responsibility. On-the-ground action like this means that judgment calls and decisions often have to be made on the spur of the moment, and this courtesy call unofficially negated the delay that red tape formality could otherwise cause.

  I arrived at the scene some 30 minutes later and as it was starting to get warm, the buffalo had moved out of view into the thick bush. Besides my neighbour, there were a number of keen and concerned observers perched on the back of a 2x4 pick-up.

  I suggested that everyone climb on to the Land Cruiser as we should try to approach the buffalo by vehicle, as given the terrain we needed to negotiate, the 4x4 was a better option. We then proceeded, albeit at snail’s pace, to keep track of the buffalo’s spoor while moving through the thick bush. It was difficult going – then, not surprisingly, 100 metres or so from the road, we got a puncture. In order to save time, I asked the young ranger in charge of the group to change the tyre and keep an eye on the guests while my neighbour and I followed the buffalo on foot.

  The tracks were relatively easy to follow now that we were on foot. It had rained a few days earlier and the buffalo’s hooves left discernible imprints in the soft ground. We tracked through some really thick stuff for about 200 metres or so then it began to open up a little. A few metres later we reached a small clearing, about the size of a couple of tennis courts. These natural open areas are characterised by sodic soils with high clay content, and besides the odd tamboti tree, magic guarri bush and stunted turpentine grass, not much grows on them.

  This particular clearing had a small rain-filled wallow on the far fringe, surrounded by guarri bush which formed a secluded thicket … an ideal place for the buffalo to lie up and nurse an aching wound, I thought. Typical of mid-morning conditions in the lowveld, the breeze was erratic and began to swirl, shifting our scent directly towards the thicket and wallow. I thought it would be pointless to spook the buffalo, only to have it thunder off without giving us a glimpse of its injury, so I suggested we do a wide circle of the bush surrounding the wallow and approach from upwind.

  Motioning for my neighbour to move in behind me, as we would now be moving through the perimeter of thick bush, we slowly began to circle the clearing. Moments later I heard a rasping snort in the bush, about 20 metres in front of me. The sound was not unlike what you get when you place your teeth on your bottom lip and exhale sharply. Normally, after the snort, you hear the usual hoof beats and cracking of twigs and branches as these massive animals run through the bush away from you, but not this time. This buffalo burst out of the thicket directly in front of me, about 15 metres away. It was shrouded by a small flock of chirping red-billed oxpeckers which were clearly upset as their host abruptly shook them off and charged me.

  In a situation where a hunter wounds a buffalo and is following its tracks, there is always an expectation that these dreadnoughts will suddenly, without warning, charge, invariably from a well chosen area of concealment. You can normally rely on the fact that, even when wounded and pursued, the majority of buffalo will try every trick in the book to get away from their pursuers rather than confront them. Having said this, once a buffalo does make up its mind to charge, only one thing will stop it … its death or yours.

  I was reasonably sure that this buffalo had not been wounded by a hunter, nor had it been harassed by anyone in a capture attempt, but the sheer resolve and determination of its charge left me in no doubt that it was intent on getting me. Incredibly, I managed to remain focused; no doubt my previous experience with buffalo in similar situations helped hone my instinctive reactions.

  I remember thinking clearly and methodically as I raised the rifle to my shoulder, flicking the safety off in the same motion, feeling the knurled metal of its tiny lever on my thumb as I slid it forward. I recall distinctly the moment the front sight of the rifle settled on the chest area of the charging buffalo. At a range of approximately five metres, with its head held high in typical charging attitude, I was able to place a shot in the relatively pale and hairless crease, where its powerful neck met its body. At the impact of the 410 grain slug, a pencil-thick stream of blood spurted straight out of the bullet’s entry wound. Later, we determined that a major artery had been severed somewhere along the bullet’s path into the chest area of the buffalo.

  Despite this mortal wound, the buffalo’s momentum and determination carried it straight into me. With a flick of its horns, I was thrown sideways into a grove of knobthorn trees also known as ‘wait-a-bit’ trees because of their vicious hooked thorns. These thorns will physically hold you back, making you wait a bit until you’ve unhooked them from flesh or clothing. I soon found out how aptly named this tree is.

  Knobthorn leaves also happen to be highly nutritious and these particular specimens were thick and stunted from relentless browsing by kudu and giraffe. This was definitely not the ideal place to land head first, as while the going in was no problem, the coming out was to prove more than a little painful. I can assure you that these observations were added long after the event. I was too busy at the time to document matters of ecological relevance.

  How I was able to be thrown without being gored was later ascertained when we studied my tattered shorts. The horn had hooked on and ripped my left pocket, then, missing my groin by
a couple of millimetres, slid under my leather belt. The combined resistance and strength of the belt against the powerful thrust of the buffalo was enough to get my nearly 80 kg airborne for a few metres.

  On the ground now, with my head and shoulders firmly wedged in the thorn bush, I tried to part-pull, part-rip, my head and face out of the thorny tangle. I knew that despite the damage these vicious thorns could inflict, it was nothing compared to what a buffalo’s horns could do. I particularly didn’t want my rear end exposed to them, so I flipped over onto my back with my knees bent up to my chest to protect my torso. I desperately kicked out at the buffalo’s head and face, but I might as well have been kicking a leadwood stump for all the effect I had. I remember thinking that if I could grab hold of, and hang on to, those sweeping horns, I may have a better chance. Otherwise, if this animal didn’t die first, this was how I was going to die.

  As the side-to-side sweeping motion of its horns slowed down, I managed to grab hold of one of them and could feel the power of the thrusts ebbing. The consequences of blood loss and tissue damage from my bullet were taking their toll and the buffalo was dying. Despite this, I was still yelling for my neighbour to shoot it, shoot it, because even a half-hearted thrust from those horns could disembowel a man. Up until this point, no other shot had been fired, and the delay felt like ages when split seconds could make all the difference.

  Later, when I asked him why he had taken so long to shoot, he said his rifle had misfired and that he had to eject the dud cartridge before he could chamber the next round. In due course, a thorough search revealed nothing and we never did find the ‘dud’ round he supposedly ejected.

  The buffalo, intent on killing me and still feebly trying to hook my body, was now side-on to my neighbour. Its forequarters had now collapsed and it was on its front knees dying, its chin virtually in my lap. This now afforded him an easy coup de grâce side shot to its heart. A couple of shots later, only one of which actually found its target, it gave a short bellow as its hindquarters gave way, almost pinning my legs under its head and chest. I didn’t need any help in squirming out from under it, and in a second was on my feet. The first thing I did was to pick up my rifle and give it a quick once over. It was covered in blood and except for a few small scratches, it seemed to be okay.

  The people who had followed the young ranger to the scene gathered around me staring open-mouthed at my blood-soaked clothes. I must have looked a sight, even though most of the blood belonged to the buffalo. I remember being offered condolences, prayers and the dregs of some lukewarm Coke in one of those two-litre plastic bottles. Under normal circumstances I don’t drink Coke, let alone warm Coke, and the little that was left in the bottom of the bottle had me thinking that it was probably mixed with backwash. It’s funny the things you think about at a time like that, but even then, I declined and took the offer of a bottle of water instead. After drinking a little, I washed the blood from my binoculars and my rifle. Blood is extremely corrosive so I needed to wipe it off the metal as quickly as possible. Again, in retrospect, it’s funny the things you think about …

  At this point someone asked me if I had seen the hole in my leg and I honestly hadn’t. I had absolutely no idea that I had been gored; the cuts from the thorns on my face and head were burning and getting most of my endorphins’ attention at this stage. I remember craning my neck around, looking down at the back of my thigh and seeing the gash, bloodless and rimmed with fat, and this grossed me out a little!

  How could I possibly have fat there, I thought, I jog nearly every day! Later, at the doctor’s consulting rooms in Hoedspruit, I was told that the horn had penetrated deeply, almost to the back of my knee. Luckily for me, it had gone between the muscle sheaths without rupturing them, and had missed my hamstring, hence the virtually bloodless wound. The same could not be said for the rest of the cuts, they bled profusely and together with the blood spatter from the bleeding buffalo, I really looked a lot worse than I actually was. It made for quite a dramatic picture though!

  What was the most painful recollection of the whole incident? Without question, it had to be the intramuscular injection of ‘Rossofin’. Apparently this potent antibiotic is normally administered intravenously. In my case it was ‘sit-down-on-the-bed-before-you-pass-out’ painful! Also painful was the fact that I couldn’t make our friends Mark and Andie Rodwell’s wedding that day. So, while I lay on the couch at home languishing in pain and self-pity, Meagan and the kids went and had a ball. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t have been much good on the dance floor, anyway.

  The reason I now carry two spare wheels on my Land Cruiser is as a result of the lesson learned from this incident. Not only did I get a puncture a few metres in, but after the incident, on my way out, I got a second! This was enough proof that radial ply tyres may look good and ride nicely, but they are absolutely useless in the bush. There was no way around this predicament, my vehicle had to be rescued, I couldn’t leave it there and this meant having to radio my wife Meagan. In not much detail, I had to explain the situation regarding the vehicle and calmly continue in a ‘by the way’ sort of way, so she wouldn’t worry, to ask her to let our doctor in Hoedspruit know I was coming in for a few stitches in the next hour or so. I then proceeded to give her some directions on how to find us, this meaning she would have to concentrate and hopefully wouldn’t ask too many questions.

  Apparently the directions I gave were not that good, the result being that she and one of our drivers got a little lost, and in so doing came upon the remnants of a buffalo calf that had been killed and eaten by lions the night before.

  This happened a mere 50 metres from where the buffalo had first been seen, and could explain why the buffalo was on her own, had lion claw marks on her body and was so belligerent. She had obviously spent some time during the previous evening trying to protect her calf against the lions. This harrowing experience was later made worse, at the sight of two men following her on foot, probably the last straw.

  I believe that essentially this was an unnecessary call. There was certainly nothing wrong with any of this animal’s legs, and where the suspected snare came into the initial observation, I don’t know. This buffalo should have been given the benefit of the doubt and left alone to get over the loss of her calf. If we had to track down and harass every buffalo in a bad mood or nursing a wound or displaying a limp, we would face near tragic predicaments like this one more frequently. My only reservation is that should a dangerous animal be noted displaying abnormal behaviour in an area anywhere near walking trails, the manager or warden is obliged, in the interest of safety, to conduct an investigation. The assessment of the degree of injury and subsequent action required should always be ascertained by a competent professional, or failing this, at least get a second objective opinion. If in doubt, leave things be.

  I’d love to know how many of you reading this actually placed your teeth on your bottom lip and exhaled sharply, just to hear what that snort sounded like.

  Maybe you will forever remember the sound.

  I will never forget it.

  Shilo

  1981–1995

  They say a man has only one dog in his lifetime. This is the story about mine.

  Shilo was born in 1981 at the Pont Drift border post, on the southern bank of the great, grey, green, greasy and now, due to soil erosion, gritty Limpopo River, which forms the border between South Africa and the north eastern corner of Botswana. He was the shyest of the five puppies that I was there to choose from, and I can still remember how reluctant he was to come out of the 44 gallon drum that served as his mother’s kennel. It had been his home for the six weeks he’d been in this world and he wasn’t ready to leave the comfort of his mother’s side. As Spartan as this was, he had her protection and love, he felt safe and secure. This was all he knew until I entered his life and he entered mine. And so it was, since that day I reached in to touch him and he licked my hand, we were never apart for longer than a few days at a stretch.


  I was living alone at that stage of my life and therefore could devote a lot of time to him. This closeness developed to the point where commands were hardly necessary, simple gestures and tone were enough to communicate. As time went by, it became increasingly apparent that I was completely mistaken with my first impression of him. What I initially thought to be timidity and shyness was, in fact, a combination of sensitivity and intelligence. He was able to pick up on the most subtle nuances to the point that later, Meagan and I would have to spell certain words if there was something we didn’t want him to react to.

  His ability to respond to hand signals probably saved his life one day. We were on the Transkei Wild Coast at the time, fishing on the incoming tide at the mouth of the Mkambati lagoon and the shad were biting well. We were totally preoccupied with the task at hand and so no one noticed when Shilo ran off chasing after one of the local bitches who happened to be on heat. When we realised what was happening, he was already crossing the lagoon after her.

  The only way I could call him back over the noise of the sea was to get his attention and wave my arm beckoning for him to return. Thanks to his obedience, he responded immediately. This must have saved his life, for another 15 minutes and the back wash current would have swept him out to sea.

  The African bush is filled with dangers for dogs, so Shilo went everywhere with me, it being too dangerous for a young pup to be left alone at camp. This emphasised the immediate need for discipline and training, neither of which was a problem. He responded enthusiastically to training and learned quickly, which I was really pleased about. An untrained dog is particularly vulnerable and curious puppies are at most risk. To any dog, however, the most serious threats come from warthogs and baboons. Nothing tests a dog’s resolve and discipline quite like an arrogant baboon. Aggressive and over-protective dogs in particular, are easily lured out of their safety zone and then torn to pieces by these well-armed primates who are masters at gang fighting.