Mhudi

by Sol T Plaatje

  Given the four-gun limit that legislation imposes, I’d be happy with a .22 long rifle, 30/06 Springfield, .416 Rigby and a 12 bore shotgun.

  Jest Jurgen … and There’s More!

  2005, shortly after the walking trails were closed

  Jurgen loved to take the scenic route up to the reserve and would often travel on his own via Polokwane and Magoebaskloof. For security reasons he always carried a big handgun on his hip, except for the short period when he accidentally lost it in the refuse trailer up at the workshop. This happened when he hoisted the bin bag and threw it into the receptacle; the bag must have hooked the exposed hammer on his revolver, which lifted the gun out of its holster and into the bin. A couple of days later it was found when the garbage was being sorted for incineration. Were it not for a sharp-eyed staff member, it would have been incinerated along with all the other trash. How this slightly built man didn’t feel the sudden weight loss of a .357 magnum revolver disappearing from his waist beats me.

  In the days when the game-viewing vehicles were all parked at the reserve’s main entrance gate, shareholders would park their Jo’burg vehicles there, unload all their supplies into their game-viewing 4x4, or merely transfer their pre-loaded Venter trailer from one vehicle to the other. With the trailer and the other paraphernalia loaded, the journey then took you along the winding, bumpy access road and through the wide, soft sandy crossing of the Mohlabetsi River. Once across, you continued through some beautiful Combretum and Marula woodland which took you past Wild Dog Pan, a popular game watering hole. Then you could either turn down to the Madrid lodges or continue on to Spaghetti Junction. This drive was approximately 18 kilometres long and took about 30 minutes, all of it through prime big game country, so it was always a bit of an adventure; in essence, it would be the first game drive of your visit.

  Looking forward to a relaxing weekend on the reserve, Jurgen was probably in deep contemplation, thinking where he would go for that afternoon’s drive, and what he’d pack in the cooler box for sundowners.

  Approaching the sandy river crossing, he slowed down, engaged a lower gear, pushed down the yellow knob to engage four-wheel-drive and then eased the Land Rover into the soft sand. As the vehicle was churning its way through, he saw two men running towards him from the fence line. They were about 30 metres away, approaching fast, waving long knives known as ‘pangas’ and shouting something Jurgen didn’t understand. It must have been a terrifying sight. Although always armed, he told us that he thought better of reaching for his handgun to protect himself and decided to rather try and drive away from them, which fortunately he managed to do. As the Land Rover climbed out of the river bed and up the steep bank on the opposite side, he looked back over his shoulder, and could see that although the two men had long since given up the chase, they were still gesticulating in his direction.

  The next morning, a very shaken and worried Jurgen stood in the office and in wide-eyed detail related the story to us, pausing only to lift a shaking hand and take another deep draw on his cigarette. When he had finished telling us about his ordeal, he must have noticed that we were not taking the story as seriously as he might have expected. Eventually I couldn’t contain myself any longer. I decided that before I burst out laughing, I’d better tell him what really happened, and then we could laugh about it together, which we did. Despite his Germanic sense of humour instinctively searching for logic, the explanation that followed had him laughing until he had tears in his eyes.

  In fact, the two panga-wielding attackers were employees of Olifants who had been clearing the grass and scrub growth along the fence line with our neighbouring reserve, Ukhozi. Being a Saturday meant that it was a half-day, which had been overlooked by the person who was supposed to pick them up, and so they had not been collected. That was when they realised that the vehicle approaching them was a perfect opportunity to get a ride back to headquarters. Jurgen was on his own and had plenty of room in his Land Rover, so they waved their pangas to show they were bona fide workers, and to attract his attention to their plight. In order not to inconvenience Jurgen, the two men thought they would save time by running up to him, knowing that the shareholders were often quite keen to get to their lodge as quickly as possible …

  Can you blame anyone who didn’t know these two men for reacting the same way as Jurgen? It makes you think just how something so innocently funny could just as easily have ended in tragedy by Jurgen turning into an armed and dangerous person exercising his right to self-defence, or by the entire tale starring a couple of poachers whose objectives would have been far from innocent. But Jurgen did the right thing and exercised restraint, something we all have to do on various occasions in the bush. Not only is it prudent to exercise restraint when apparently being attacked by panga-wielding poachers, but dangerous animals also need to be given the benefit of the doubt, time and circumstances permitting, of course. As an example …

  Olifants had recently closed its walking trails, and for good reason. The influx of nearly 500 elephant and the burgeoning hippo population meant that walking on the riparian floodplain of the Olifants River, once a popular route, was now too dangerous to contemplate unless you were accompanied by an adequately armed ranger. This possibility prompted one of the shareholders to ask if he and his partner could accompany our anti-poaching ranger on his next patrol. These patrols take place over the entire Olifants region, including privately owned neighbouring properties surrounding our reserve. As a matter of courtesy, permission from the neighbour was obtained for persons other than our bona fide rangers to walk on their property, and this was granted.

  The weather that morning was perfect picnic weather for Scotland, overcast and cool with a light drizzle. Despite this dampener on the day, the young couple set out early with our chief ranger, in eager anticipation of a brisk walk along the breathtakingly beautiful floodplain. Following the well-worn hippo path, they walked in virtual silence, the soft sand muffling even the most clumsy footfall.

  One of the first animals they saw that morning was the rare Pel’s fishing owl. At their approach, the huge bird dropped silently from the thick foliage of a huge grove of Natal mahogany trees. Swooping low, it then settled plainly visible in a sycamore fig tree a little further downstream. ‘What a start to the day,’ the couple thought. As they continued, a number of waterbuck and even the normally wary bushbuck were startled at the walkers’ silent approach, only breaking cover at a heart-stopping few metres ahead of them.

  By now used to the odd animal revealing itself at the last moment as they walked, there was a hardly perceptible hesitancy when a louder crashing of vegetation was heard off to the side. Only when this revealed a hippo bull hurtling towards them at full speed was there any reaction. After seeing the tracker throw his rifle down and climb the nearest tree, one of the party simply picked the next best tree and also climbed up it. This left only one option for the remaining walker … the river! But this was the same river the hippo was heading for. Fortunately, the hippo path followed a fairly gentle gradient into the river, which allowed the hapless walker the opportunity to dive off the steeper edge of the path at a right-angle into the river and avoid the hippo. There really was nowhere else to go!

  The startled hippo had no intention of attacking anybody that morning. The short-sighted old bull was merely determined to get back into the water along the path with which it was familiar – only this time there were three strange animals standing in his way. On cool, overcast days hippo often move quite some distance from water, particularly in winter when the grass on the floodplain has been depleted and better feeding is to be had further inland. These nocturnally active animals will often extend their hours of grazing by taking advantage of cool conditions such as this, foraging late into the day. Being caught between a hippo and the water can be an extremely dangerous situation, as effectively you are blocking its route to safety and it will attack if given no alternative.

  Did the ranger register this lack of intent in the hi
ppo’s tiny pig-like eyes when he dumped the rifle, or did he also just ‘pop his clutch’ and use ‘four-limb-drive’ to get the hell out of the way as Jurgen did, and then in hindsight, breathe a sigh of relief, happy not to have used his firearm?

  Everybody survived the ordeal unscathed, except for the rifle, which to this day, despite repeated stripping and cleaning, still has a gritty feel about its action.

  Tracking – Science or Mysterious Art?

  September 2009

  On a cold winter’s day, nearly 60 years ago, a young boy by the name of Roy Weatherby was out hunting white-tailed deer somewhere in the North American woods. He was alone but enjoyed the solitude of the back country; it was how he preferred to hunt. To date he had needed nothing more than a basic knowledge of his quarry, the woods they lived in and his skill with a rifle to fill the freezer with venison.

  The air was crisp and each breath hung in a vapour cloud before drifting slowly away: windless conditions like this were ideal for hunting. He had been out since first light that morning hoping to spot some deer sunning themselves on the higher slopes. Using the shadows of the tree line along the contour and moving slowly along the narrow valley with patches of open meadow which lay between the high ground on either side, it wasn’t long before he came across a small herd of deer browsing on the opposite hillside. Among them was a huge 12-point buck, but at a distance of over 400 metres they were much too far away to risk a shot. Bending over in a low crouch and with deliberate foot placements Roy began to stalk them. In the relatively open sections he was reduced to crawling on his belly at times, but all the while he quietly crept closer. When he had managed to close the distance to less than 100 yards he was now in a more favourable position to take a shot. Steadying himself against a Ponderosa pine tree whose lower branches offered concealment, he released the safety catch on the rifle and peered through the telescopic sight. Despite his pounding heart shifting the point of aim with each beat, he squeezed the trigger as the crosshairs settled on the shoulder of the buck.

  The impact of the bullet caused the buck to stumble momentarily, then, appearing to recover, it disappeared along with the others into the forest. This would be the last image Roy would ever have of that deer. Any doubt that it had been hit was soon dispelled by the blood spatter that was found on the ground which trailed off to smaller droplets – and then after a few metres the blood trail seemed to evaporate completely. The young boy was frantic: he tried desperately to locate the deer by using a random, grid-searching technique that continued for hours but which yielded nothing; the buck was never found.

  Roy was deeply troubled by this incident, so much so that it led him on a quest for the ‘magic bullet’ – one that would kill an animal quicker than conventional bullets. He never wanted to wound or lose a deer again, and like so many dedicated hunters was preoccupied with ballistics, focusing primarily on improving bullet performance by increasing their velocity and energy. He dedicated his life to the design of powerful rifle calibres with superior ballistics, and popularised a range of weapons that went on to become the famous Weatherby magnums.

  At this point you may be wondering what all this preamble on bullets and ballistics has got to do with tracking. For one, had Roy been able to track down that deer he wounded in the woods all those years ago, he would probably never have developed his famous magnum calibres, or for that matter felt the need to. More to the point, however, I believe that despite his contribution to the hunting world in terms of weaponry, he would have achieved more success as a hunter by learning the basics of the art of tracking. Being able to track your quarry down enables the hunter to curtail unnecessary suffering relatively quickly, something no badly placed shot, irrespective of innovative bullet design, high velocity or energy, is capable of doing.

  It is bullet placement and good tracking that is the key to efficient hunting – and of these two criteria, being able to track is the most dependable. This can be illustrated by the fact that the San of the Kalahari use small poison-tipped arrows to deliver their toxin into the game they hunt; the shaft is then designed to fall off while the arrow head remains embedded in the animal. Depending on the body mass of the animal and the rate at which the poison impedes its progress, they will persistently follow its spoor until they find it, then deliver the coup de grâce if necessary. Animals as large as eland and giraffe are successfully hunted this way.

  Tracking and the use of expert trackers is as old as mankind itself, but for the majority of us, our modern lifestyle no longer depends on tracking animals for the purpose of hunting them for food. However, the skill is still widely used in the safari industry, law enforcement, forensic science, military, wildlife research and finding lost pets and livestock. Even in this day and age, there are situations where using an expert tracker can still mean the difference between life and death, success or failure, or profit or loss.

  One of the countless memorable examples of what a fine tracker can do happened in the Timbavati Nature Reserve nearly 25 years ago, and although this occurred in the heart of Big Five country, this particular story involves a dog, a very special dog.

  Shilo loved to run, so much so that he would often yelp with delight when he was let out of the Land Rover to run behind it for a while. When we did this I would always pull ahead of him for fear of him running next to the vehicle where I was afraid he might lose his footing and fall under the back wheels. To avoid this I’d need to pull quite far ahead of him; otherwise if the road surface was good he would turn on the pace and catch up to me when I was compelled to slow down for a bend in the road or to negotiate a sandy drift. This particular day was no different, except that it was a warmer than usual summer’s day and the cooling effect of the wind driving in an open Land Rover was deceptive. Relenting to Shilo’s cold-wet-nose-against-my-ear-pressure to run, I let him out and drove on ahead.

  At this point we were about two kilometres from camp as the crow flies. A few minutes later, climbing the gentle slope that led up to M’bali, I glanced over my shoulder expecting to see the familiar sight of Shilo, ears pinned back in the wind, running up behind me … but there was nothing. I turned the vehicle around and drove back to where I’d last seen him … still nothing. Checking for tracks, I found the unmistakable prints of where he had run down the road; then on a bend a few hundred metres later, they veered off and disappeared into the bush. I began calling his name, trying at least a couple of dozen times until fear dried up my mouth, and soon I could no longer utter a sound. There was no response, so I went back to the last track I could find, hoping for a clue as to the direction he took. It was really hot now and the midday sun beat down bright and brassy, quite possibly the worst time to try and follow spoor. This only added to my anxiety.

  Thinking he may have headed back to camp by taking a short-cut through the bush I drove home and started the generator and water pump, hoping he would be guided home by the familiar sound of the thumping diesel motors. Then, not satisfied with the noise level, I began hooting in desperation (something one doesn’t do in the bush): this brought my concerned staff in from their lunch break to find out what the problem was. Even before I’d finished explaining what had happened they groaned in sympathy; everyone there knew what Shilo meant to me.

  The Timbavati Game Reserve bristles with large predators, so I knew despite Shilo’s bush sense that a domestic dog had no chance of survival out there – I had to find him. Almost in tears at the thought of what could happen if I didn’t, I climbed back into the Land Rover and headed out to look for him again. In those days Motswari didn’t employ trackers or game scouts at the lodges and there wasn’t time to hire one from elsewhere. In my impatience to get going, the wheels of the vehicle spun as I tried to get traction on the loose quartz gravel of the road surface, and this brief delay allowed the camp gardener, Phinias Sibuyi, to step into the road and motion me to stop.

  ‘I can help you find Shilo, if you show me where you left his tracks,’ he said.

  In situat
ions like this, one clutches at straws: I was happy for any help at this stage, even the gardener’s.

  Arriving at the spot where I’d last seen Shilo’s tracks, I pointed them out to the ‘gardener’. I wasn’t expecting much more than a sympathetic pair of eyes to help me scan the bush for Shilo … well, that was until Phinias took the spoor – and he literally did ‘take the spoor’. Cupping his hands on either side of one of Shilo’s prints, he scooped the soil that had contained the track and put it in a small plastic bag which he promptly pocketed. ‘We will not lose him now,’ he said.

  I remember thinking how weird that was, but as I had a much more pressing issue to worry about I decided on adopting an ‘any-port-in-a-storm’ attitude, which thankfully didn’t last for long. As Phinias proceeded I began to detect a definite change in his attitude and the way he moved. Despite his baggy, soil-stained overalls and oversized gumboots, there were subtle behaviourisms that were hauntingly familiar – then it suddenly dawned on me. Years before in the Sabi Sands game reserve, I’d seen game scouts with the same mannerisms conjure the same magic … I was witnessing a master tracker at work. This man was no longer the humble labourer tending a garden, which at best was what the warthogs and crickets didn’t want to eat, or the man who depended on me for a meagre wage each month. I was clearly in the hands of an expert and totally dependent on him now for something no amount of money could buy.

  Clasping his hands together behind his back and bending over slightly, Phinias studied the spoor. He proceeded frustratingly slowly, but with such confidence that it completely renewed mine. An hour later he turned to me with a broad grin on his face: ‘Nangu’ (there), he said, pointing to Shilo, who lay softly panting in the cool shade of a magic guarrie bush. Besides a sheepish grin that broke into a toothy smile which made him sneeze when he saw us, he looked rather comfortable, this despite the heat that had driven him to search for shade which he’d found a few hundred metres from the road. This is probably where he would have lain until it cooled down later in the afternoon, and who could blame him. It was I who was to blame, having horribly underestimated the heat that day … and it was I who should have been wearing a sheepish grin.