Chapter 15 of Bulletproof by Ken Moody

An uneasy feeling tugged at my gut as we made our final approach on the wounded buffalo. We had pushed the old boy for hours and now, it seemed, the pushing was over. I knew he was there, just in the distance holed up in a tangle of sickle bush, but I also knew that he was tired and ornery and all those things a buffalo can become when they’ve decided to make a stand. As we crept closer, I also knew a decision point would be reached and that all hell was likely to come thundering towards us. I knew all of this, but onward we pressed, as this, you see, is the essence of hunting buffalo.

Bob had come to me the previous year, seeking out our booth at a trade show closest to his state of residence, hoping to discuss a possible buffalo hunt. The 13-hour drive the day before had a tiring effect, and I could see the weariness in his eyes as he sat down to talk. After an hour of discussion and attending one of my seminars, Bob booked a 10-day buffalo adventure for the following season. The actual booking of the hunt seemed to rejuvenate Bob, as after the show, he joined my wife and me for a few shots of bourbon and a perfectly cooked steak. It was a great evening spent rehashing old buffalo hunting tales and going over the finer details of his upcoming safari. When he departed our company, he was excited and determined, just the way we like our clients to be.

The year passed quickly as Bob and I kept in contact, going over his bullet selection and practice regimen. He was past 50 but in good shape and had worked on his stamina all through the off season, something evident when he walked into camp, his slimmed physique not going unnoticed.

‘Been doing some work, I see,’ I said laughing as he entered. ‘Absolutely,’ he replied. ‘Can’t let myself be shown up by you.’

Going to the rifle range proved that his health wasn’t the only thing he’d been working on. Bullet after bullet found its mark at various ranges off the shooting sticks. ‘So, you’re a sniper now,’ I quipped. ‘On paper, I’m deadly,’ he replied, laughing as he said it. ‘Let’s just hope I can keep it together on a big buff.’

The banter may have been jovial, but his words were all too true. Many clients are marksmen on the range but completely fall apart when asked to deliver a good shot on a buffalo. Some just imagine what could happen if they screw it up and pull their shots. I’ve seen them hit everywhere imaginable.

Day one of the safari began, as most do, scouting for buff. We scoured the river and other watering points for hours looking for that track that screamed, ‘come find me,’ but none were to be found. On one occasion we happened upon a small herd drinking and rolling about in the mud, a display all too common, but nothing shootable presented itself. We continued our search until darkness made the endeavor no longer viable and returned to camp for our first campfire. Much was discussed that first night. Everything from the first day’s outing – the track deciphering and the trophy quality of the bulls discovered amongst that herd we had found. Bob was excited, and rightfully so. He was in the African bush hunting buffalo and for those of us who do it, absolutely nothing could be better. The second day of the hunt was a bit different. While we were hunting the day prior, we had one of our other team members drag all the roads in the late afternoon that paralleled the river and national park on our border. The buffalo moving out of the park and onto our concession for water would come out early, so today’s tactic was to put our tracker and PH, John, on the front of the truck and slowly drive these roads in search of good spoor. Around mid-morning we hit pay dirt. Entering our area from one of the densest parts of the park were the tracks of a small herd of old bachelor bulls, dugga boys, as we call them. The tracks were fresh and so was the dung that confirmed it. We were on to something now.

‘Your bull is at the end of these tracks, Bob,’ I said as I loaded up the double. ‘You think so?’ questioned Bob, a grin upon his sunburned face. ‘I reckon so,’ was my response. ‘I’d say these buffalo crossed here just at daylight, so we’re about four hours behind them. They’ll go to the water and linger along the river for a while as they feed. In about two hours from now, they’ll start to look for a shady place to bed, so we’ve got about that much time to close in on them.’ Bob looked a bit concerned as he replied, ‘How far is the river?’ ‘Oh, about two hours from here,’ I responded, chuckling as I said it. ‘Did you lace ‘em tight this morning?’ Bob looked down at his boots. ‘So tight I can’t feel my feet.’ We both laughed and took to the track, our PH/tracker leading the way.

The terrain sloped downhill a bit, and the initial tracking was easy, five buffalo bulls in all, making a direct line towards the river along a well-used trail. John made short work of his job, our progress steady and at a good clip. Bob showed no signs of fatigue as we finished the first mile, his work in the months before the safari evident. I knew the area well and the stroll we were on would soon become more challenging with the thickets and thorns that lay ahead. Buffalo don’t seem to mind such things, but it can become a slog for those burdened with rifles, ammo, and an accoutrement of gear. I’ve always traveled light in the bush, but even so, a heavy nitro express in hand along with a belt of heavy ammunition can take a toll. By mile two, we were into it. The gradual slope we had initially enjoyed had increased significantly as we negotiated the winding trail at a near downward angle. A gorge to our front had to be crossed and the only thing worse than getting down into it was the thought of having to climb skywards out of it. Still, we pressed on, the rewards at the end hopefully worth it. ‘How’s it, Bob?’ I asked as we finally hit the ground level at the bottom of the little canyon. ‘Good to go,’ was his positive reply. Winding deeper into the gorge, the trail meandered along the level bottom for a few hundred yards before rising with an imposing incline to our front. We took a break before the climb, each of us drinking water and catching our breath. ‘Thought we were hunting buffalo, not mountain goats,’ Bob said. ‘Don’t be fooled by their appearance, friend,’ I replied.

‘A buffalo is pure power and can climb the steepest mountains. I’ve seen them go up hills that would make a goat envious.’ ‘Well, I’m still perfectly fine, but my rifle is worn out,’ said Bob.

We all chuckled at the remark.

Once we had rested enough, we began the ascent from the depths of the gorge along the steep trail in front of us. Huffing and puffing, one foot in front of the other, we pushed on, breaching the top and finding level ground after a 30-minute battle with fatigue. We had about 45 minutes until we hit the river.

With good walking terrain ahead of us, we made up for lost time in the gorge with a quick pace. Around noon, we entered the thickets that protected the river. The track still followed the same path, so we stuck to it, the sickle thorns tearing at our clothes and gear. When we were near to the banks of the water, John threw up his hand and the rest of us stopped instantly, bush statues barely breathing. There in the distance, standing in the shallows of the river, was a big buffalo bull, the sunlight glistening brightly from his wet boss and horns. What a brute.

With a buffalo identified, I crept up to John. ‘That’s a superb buffalo,’ I said, ‘but there’s five more around him somewhere.’ John nodded and we formulated a plan to move on the bull while hoping we wouldn’t be ‘busted’ by the others. There was a chance that this bull had stayed along the river as his mates wandered to a bedding area, but odds were, all of them were there. We just couldn’t see the others yet.

A cross wind from the water inland made our approach doable. We would circle to our left and move just outside the thicket until we came online with the buffalo, then turn into him and approach directly. We moved slowly and carefully, the sand beneath giving way with every step. At a point we judged to be across from our target, John turned us right and we crept up a slight embankment, hoping to find a vantage point from which to discern our final stalk. Cresting the little hill, we gazed upon the last known spot which held our quarry and saw nothing. The big bull had moved, to where we knew not.

‘He’s given us the slip,’ said Bob, a look of concern on his face. ‘Maybe not,’ I replied. ‘He’s likely just moved back into the thicket along with the others.’ My words to Bob were for reassurance, but I too believed that possibly the old boy had sensed our approach and moved off. Checking the wind and finding it still favorable, we crawled over the hill and towards the last known spot of our buffalo, everyone’s senses on high alert. Catching a charge in these thickets wouldn’t be conducive to our continued good health, so we all kept diligent as we moved.

As our approach brought us closer, I could hear the running waters of the mighty river and knew our proximity to the beach could be measured in mere meters. Suddenly, John held up his hand and stopped, the rest of us in limbo as he appeared to be focused on a single point to our left. John slowly motioned to come forward, and I moved a little closer as Bob tapped me on the boot, mouthing the words, ‘what’s going on,’ as I looked back. I stuck my hand out towards Bob, fingers together pointing upwards, motioning him to stop. An overanxious client who can’t hold his nerve has blown many stalks in the past and I wanted to let him know firmly to be still and keep quiet.

When I reached John in front of me, a slow-moving finger pointing at ten o’clock met me when I arrived. I pulled up my binos and cast a glance into the general direction of the finger. I concentrated on the thickets and tried to make out anything resembling a buffalo, but only saw branches and foliage. Then there it was, a movement indicating a leg. Studying the area, I could begin to see the legs of more than one buffalo, tucked away deep in that tangle. I looked at John and with a hand signal, he suggested that the buffalo were bedding down. They would shuffle a bit in the thicket but eventually all lay down and bed for the afternoon. We had gotten to the river a little too late.

I knew we couldn’t hope to be successful by trying to move towards the bedding area, so we all backed out along the trail we had entered and moved to the vantage point we had staged at earlier. ‘Why didn’t we move on them?’ Bob quipped. ‘They were only about 60 yards away.’

‘Because you’re paying us to be smarter than you,’ I replied, smiling as I said it. ‘Moving on a group of bedded dugga boys is a recipe for failure,’ I continued. ‘Our best plan is to hold up here and wait until they get back up in a few hours. Once we determine their movement, we’ll make a plan to intercept. The wind will stay constant here along the river, so we have the advantage. This is our best course of action.’ ‘Ok, bwana,’ chuckled Bob, ‘I trust you and your team’s expertise on this.’ ‘That’ why we make the big bucks,’ I said, causing the group to laugh. Settling down on the sandbank, we had a quick lunch and rested while John kept vigil, waiting for any movement from our little group of bulls.

Around three hours into our respite, I was awakened by a pebble striking my chest. I peered under the wide brim of my hat to see John motioning us to rise and ready. The buffalo were on the move. I climbed the shallow incline and joined John and we glassed off towards the river, finding six old dugga boys strolling long its banks, moving away from our position. They were, as expected, all still together. ‘I reckon they’ll follow the river and feed along the bank,’ I whispered. ‘Let’s move parallel to them until we find terrain more suitable to an approach.’ The wind still proved favorable, and all agreed to the plan.

With Bob in tow, we crept along the brush line, just keeping out of sight of our quarry. Having given them all a good look, I surmised that at least five of the six were good bulls, any of which we’d take given the opportunity. Bob was happy with a mature buffalo and, with these additional options, I felt confident we could deliver hunter and buffalo to the same general proximity. A quick scan on my onX Hunt app showed a small hill about two hundred yards to our front along the riverbank. If we could get to it and gain a bit of elevation, we could see the bulls approaching and make a plan to intercept. A hasty ambush setup is much more productive than trying to move to a target buffalo. Having them come to you provides a great advantage in that the client can attain a dead rest position and wait for the best angle to execute the shot on an unsuspecting bull.

We picked up the pace a bit and tried to outdistance our quarry. I wasn’t concerned with the buffalo crossing the river as it was deep along this stretch and the lush grasses along the side holding them was plentiful. When I spied the hill, I motioned that we should go around and come up from behind so that we weren’t spotted during our ascent. It was a small hill just high enough to provide us with a visual advantage. We climbed the mound and once we approached the peak, got to the ground and crawled to the crest. Peering over the top, I glassed to see the oncoming buffalo, but saw nothing but a barren bank. Had I made a blunder?

‘Where they at, Chief?’ querried Bob, concerned. ‘Patience my friend,’ I responded. ‘These old bulls don’t get into a hurry.’ Outside I was calm and professional, but inside I was worried, hoping I hadn’t blown it with my ‘brilliant’ plan. A minute or so passed and then I saw it, a winged cattle egret flying over the thickets and towards the river. Following the bird, I watched as it glided effortlessly before descending and perching atop something. That something I knew to be a buffalo. ‘There!’ I exclaimed.

‘There they are.’ Bob strained his eyes, peering through his binos. ‘I don’t see them,’ he said. ‘You don’t need to,’ I replied. ‘That white bird you see there just off the bank is riding one now.’ Two of hunters’ best friends are the little oxpecker and the bright white egret. Both of these winged messengers can signal the location of buffalo as they ride them and pick off the ticks clinging to their hides.

The bird atop the bull was soon joined by others until all six buffalo had at least one egret on them. Like a beacon, we could now follow their progress and get ourselves into position. The buffalo seemed to just be mingling around a certain spot, a place I assumed where they had found some nice grass to feed on. We observed the herd for a while until eventually, one of them left the cover along the bank and ventured out along the river for a drink. Satisfying his thirst, he moved back to the others, and the wait continued. We had a little over an hour before darkness set in, so if they didn’t move soon, we’d have to go in and take our chances.

‘I think we need a new plan,’ whispered Bob, his lack of patience getting the better of him. ‘We already have one,’ I said. ‘We’ll move from here and go to them if they don’t head this way soon.’ Smiling, Bob gave me a thumbs up as we went back to the binos. The problem with moving on them now was the ‘scouts’ sitting on their backs. The egrets would most likely spot us and take flight, alerting the herd to our presence, but soon, a decision would need to be made. Another 15 minutes passed. ‘Ok, let’s go.’ I had concluded that the old group of bachelors had become very content with the patch of grass they’d found and were in no hurry to leave it. If we didn’t make our move now, darkness would catch us, and the day would be lost. It was now or never.

I gathered the group and, collectively, we made a plan of action. We’d sneak off the side of the hill and follow it around to the riverbank where we’d approach from the water’s side towards the clump holding the buffalo.

It would be much quieter to creep along the sand than through the tangle of thickets. We’d use the birds as reference and if we were lucky, they’d be more interested in eating ticks than staying alert. We had to move slowly, but in a hurry. Any experienced buffalo hunter knows exactly what that means. Like snakes, we crept along that riverbank, inching our way closer to a hopeful paydirt. Staying low, we ensured that we were beneath the birds’ line of sight while occasionally raising up a bit and re-establishing their position. Time was not on our side, so we moved cautiously, but with purpose. John led us forward, searching for just the right spot from which we could wheel inward and towards our prey.

A slightly raised hand from our tracker signaled a stop. As he pointed to his ear, I strained to hear the tell-tale sounds of a buffalo herd feeding, the grass being munched just faintly audible. Then a grunt came from the thicket, followed by another. The buffalo were fully engaged in feeding and the wind was perfect. During our hunt briefing, which occurred the day Bob got to camp, we went over this type of scenario; where he was to be in line, what hand and arm signals meant, where to shoot based on the buffalo’s presentation, all of it. There’s no time in the field to address these things, it must be understood prior to the hunt. When signaled, we all turned into the thicket and began the tedious move, all of us on hands and knees. The closer we crept, the louder the feeding sounds became. I tapped Bob on the foot as we moved and smiled at him, hoping to calm the anxiety I knew was there. It’s a big moment when closing in on a massive Cape Buffalo. All the things that could go wrong and all the power they could bring to bear can be overwhelming to think about. It takes a lot of experience to quell those thoughts and focus on the job at hand. Just move into position and get it done. That’s all you should concentrate on.

As we crept closer, a trail appeared that seemed to go on a direct line to the buffalo. Maybe this was a spot they knew well and used frequently enough to carve out a decent line of approach as they had moved back and forth to the river. For whatever reason, I was happy we’d found it, as it would be much easier to negotiate than picking our way through the tangles. We took the trail and closed the distance, the sounds of the buffalo now amplified by our close proximity. Rounding a turn on the trail, John froze, causing us all to stop dead on the trail. The seconds seemed like forever as we lingered there, motionless and barely breathing. I could see Bob kneading the sand with his right hand as his nerves were to the breaking point. Suddenly, all was quiet. The feeding sounds, the movement, all of it ceased. They knew we were there.

A single grunt emitted from one of the bulls signaled the stampede as all six of the dugga boys came thundering down the very trail which held our party. Having little time to react, John rolled from the trail into the thicket as Bob and I rose up to our knees, rifle barrels in tow. BOOM went the shot from Bob’s .416, the bullet seeming to strike the first buffalo in the chest, merely paces to our front. BOOM came a second shot, my .470 responding to Bob’s initial round. The stricken bull turned, crashing through the thicket not an arm’s length in front of us while the rest of the herd scattered behind him, the sand and dirt thrown into the air causing a cloud of unbreathable debris. Chaos is the only description.

Seconds passed and I could hear the crashing of water as one or more of the buffalo made their way across the river. Was our wounded bull amongst them? I quickly checked on Bob and ensured his rifle was made safe before moving up to check on our valiant PH and tracker, John. ‘How’s it, John?’ I queried as the old African got to his feet. ‘Close,’ he replied, brushing the sand and dirt from off his clothes and pulling the branches of thorns away. John shook his head and checked his old bolt action .458 as all three of us took a few moments in silence to try and pull ourselves together. I knew that had the impact of our bullets not turned the buffalo, both Bob and I would be dead or seriously injured, knowledge that was not lost on Bob. ‘Do you think he’s down?’ Bob asked, a concerned look blanketing his face. ‘Doubtful,’ I replied. ‘A buffalo is a bullet sponge, and my shot was somewhere in the black, that’s all I can say. It happened too fast for any accurate shooting, and I basically pulled once the butt of the gun hit my shoulder.’ ‘Me too,’ sighed Bob. ‘I think I might have actually shot from the hip.’ Bob’s demeanor had, understandably, changed dramatically.

I could see the fear engulfing him having just survived the shock of a buffalo charge and I knew that now, getting him onto this buffalo would be difficult. I, too, was shaken as anyone would be. All the bravado and hubris in the world can’t save you when it’s your time. Fortunately, it wasn’t ours.

I had no reason to believe that bull was down from those two ‘Hail Mary’ shots, but at that range, maybe one or both of us hit something good and we would find him on the other sides of the water. Once composure was reestablished, we moved onto the track, which took us straight to the river’s edge. There, we found the spoor of all six buffalo entering the water and we could spy that they’d exited the other side, directly across from us. The water was too deep for a crossing and with crocodiles ever present, we chose to find a more accommodating fording place for tomorrow’s track. With the darkness approaching, we marked the spot and began the long, slow trek back to our truck and then to camp. Once there, we showered and got to the fire started for a nice, filling supper of loin and vegetables. Bob was still visibly shaken. His anxiousness had been replaced with doubt and his positive attitude with fear. He was no longer the Bob we had started with. ‘Chin up, Bob,’ I said firmly. ‘We are obligated to sort this thing out and must finish the fight. I fear we may be in for a long one tomorrow, so let’s get to bed early and rest up. I know today was not what you expected, but every buffalo hunt is different and occasionally, we get a charge. You did well not freezing up, and at least got a bullet into him. Without your shot, the day may have ended differently.’ ‘Well,’ said Bob, ‘I’m certainly no hero. I can’t even remember pulling the trigger. I don’t know what I’ll be able to do tomorrow,’ he lamented. ‘I’m sure you’ll do your job, Bob. John and I will be there and when the time comes, we’ll all flatten that buffalo if he’s still on his feet.’ After a couple of bourbons, we retired for the evening and awaited the morning’s arrival.

The ride to the river was a quiet one, all of us feeling a bit of anxiety over what may be waiting for us once we crossed the water. Bob seemed a bit melancholy and John, as usual, was steadfast. I was feeling confident and figured with two bullets in him, our bull might be a bit sluggish and hold his ground rather than run away, a benefit to us once we caught up to him. His five companions, however, gave me reason for pause. They would be a different story and hopefully, not need too much convincing to leave their wounded comrade when the time for unleashing lead was at hand. John knew the area well, so upon reaching the river, he found a nice fording spot and drove us across, the water lapping over the running boards on the side of our cruiser. We exited the truck just as the first rays of sunshine filtered over the hills and onto the riverbank. It was time to go.

A brisk, chilly wind nipped at my exposed face once we sorted the track and began moving into the thickets. I was cold but knew the rising sun would bring with it the warm rays of comfort before eventually turning the temperature up to the high 30s (Celsius). With rifles loaded and mentally prepared, we pushed forward, the tracks of six fleeing buffalo easy to follow in the sandy terrain. When we broke out of the thickets, the separation between the buffalo increased, so John was careful to ensure we followed our wounded bull. Meticulously, he surveyed the ground and went along each track until the slightest trace of blood revealed itself.

With a light whistle, he pointed towards the ground, and we were off, the wounded bull heading on a straight line into the bush.

The blood was sparse, but the track remained solid, all the bull’s spoor becoming intermingled from time to time before opening up again. John had our bull’s track in his head so he could easily distinguish it from the others, making the tracking move at a nice pace. Every so often we’d find a patch of blood indicating that the buffalo had lingered there momentarily before moving off. The track had started as a running spoor but now was a steady walk, the wind still in our favor. ‘What do you think?’ whispered Bob. ‘I think we’ll catch up to him before midday, but he’s not going down anytime soon. We’ll need to convince him to surrender,’ I replied, trying to inject a bit of levity into a tense situation. ‘Are you ready for that?’ I asked.

‘Let’s hope,’ said Bob, still feeling a bit dejected by the entire scenario. Around 10:30am, the wind began to get ‘squirrely’ as it normally does that time of morning. Back and forth, one side to the other it swirled. I knew we’d be winded once we got close to the herd, but we had no choice, we had to follow where our wounded bull led. An hour or so later we all heard it, the buffalo crashing to our front and right, branches breaking with a dust cloud rising through the thicket. Busted! We all stood motionless as the sounds of running buffalo dissipated in the distance. ‘Was he with them?’ I pondered, staring at the thicket which had, seconds earlier, held the herd. John and I conferred and both of us had the suspicion that possibly our buff was still there within the confines of thorns before us.

‘Let’s proceed with caution,’ I whispered. ‘I have a feeling he’s still in there,’ I continued while looking at Bob. As quietly as we could, we moved slowly towards the clump ahead. An uneasy feeling tugged at my gut as we made our final approach. Just before we entered the thicket, I placed my hand on Bob’s shoulder just to remind him I was there and to also direct him if needed. Into the dimming light we went, John in front, Bob and I on his heels. There wouldn’t be much room to maneuver in the tangles, and I was happy to be carrying a double rifle as there would be little time for working a bolt action at the distance we might find ourselves at.

On we went, slinking down into a small ravine, until we found the tracks of the herd. Here we followed, but just before we broke out into the open again, an audible grunt broke the silence and a mass of black stormed from the cover of a thornbush towards us. Bob raised his rifle and froze, standing motionless as my rifle came to shoulder. BOOM went John’s .458 staggering the bull, which shook his head but plowed ahead. BOOM, BOOM came my report, both barrels unleashed at under 10 yards, but still he came, momentum undeterred. I reached over and grabbed Bob, who still hadn’t moved, and pulled him towards me, diving onto the bank of the little ravine.

The bull passed us, flicking his massive horns to the left and catching Bob on his shoulder. Turning, the bull charged back but was met with a volley from John’s Bruno and one of my barrels which had been hastily reloaded. The buffalo staggered but didn’t fall, turning again and escaping on the trail we’d entered on. Bob grasped his shoulder, which seemed bruised but was not bleeding. ‘Are you ok?’ I asked, obviously concerned that our client might be injured. ‘I think so,’ he replied. ‘My arm is sore, but he didn’t hit me too hard, just grazed me as he ran by.’ ‘Can you function?’ I continued. ‘Maybe, but I’m not too sure I want any more of this. It’s just not what I thought it would be.’ ‘I noticed you were having trouble getting a shot off,’ I said, hoping he could explain his lack of participation. ‘I don’t know,’ Bob said, shaking his head. ‘Just couldn’t seem to move or do anything. I don’t know.’

I knew that this buffalo had to be taken down and knew it would be John and myself who did it. Bob was a liability at this stage and frankly, scared shitless. His proximity to John and me with a loaded rifle was far scarier than facing the wounded buffalo. A few professionals have been shot by frightened clients, some killed. Likely all of us have been shot at, me twice in desperate situations. ‘Bob, as much I’d like to have you finish the job we’ve started, I fear you might cause us some anxiety now when we close in on this buffalo again. If you’re not 100% up to it, I’d suggest you remain here in the ravine up on the side of the bank where it’s relatively safe while John and I go forward and sort this out. It’s up to you.’ ‘Go for it,’ he said. ‘I’ll feel much better about it if I’m not there.’ With those words, John and I turned and got to the track, the wounded bull surely close by.

John and moved with purpose, both of us knowing a reckoning was about to occur. This buffalo couldn’t absorb that much punishment and be too far from us. At least we hoped we’d find him quickly.

When we got back to where we’d entered the ravine, we saw him, an old warrior with worn horns and shiny, smooth bosses, staggering as he stood, seeming to dare us into coming closer. He wanted to go down but wouldn’t. He just stood there, blood oozing from his mouth and wounds, head slumping, defiant to the end. I whispered to John to go get Bob and bring him up, as we were only a hundred yards or less from the old bull. Bob needed to administer the coup. I stood there watching the buffalo, my grip on the rifle tight, ready to end it if necessary. In minutes, John returned to us, Bob in tow. I brought Bob up by my side and once John had set up the shooting sticks and Bob’s rifle was cradled within them, I looked at my client and simply said, ‘finish him.’ The .416 cracked once and the old bull buckled. A second shot put him on the ground, and one more ended it. We had done it. As we closed on the downed buffalo, John looked at me an uttered one word… ‘Bulletproof.’ ‘Almost,’ I replied, ‘almost.’

An uneasy feeling tugged at my gut as we

We made our final approach on the wounded buffalo. We had pushed the old boy for hours and now, it seemed, the pushing was over. I knew he was there, just in the distance holed up in a tangle of sickle bush, but I also knew that he was tired and ornery and all those things a buffalo can become when they’ve decided to make a stand. As we crept closer, I also knew a decision point would be reached and that all hell was likely to come thundering towards us. I knew all of this, but onward we pressed, as this, you see, is the essence of hunting buffalo.

Wieland on Mount Longido in 1993.

Written by Terry Wieland

One thing about hunting brown bears in the fall in coastal Alaska: You have lots of time to think. At first, you think about the big brownie that may step out of the thick alders at any moment, onto the tidal flat across the way. If you ignored your guide’s advice about rain gear, you may soon start reflecting on the relentless rain that is seeping through to soak you.

If you’re a gun nut who cares about his rifle’s welfare, you may also start watching every steel part, imagining you actually see the rust forming. Then you realize it’s not your imagination. It really is rust. Then an icy pond of water overflows your collar and runs down your back.

At this point, you reach deep down for some philosophical reinforcement, because that’s all you have left. It’s day 17 of a 21-day trip, and it has rained steadily for all 17 days, for which you are paying a thousand dollars a day. Big game hunters are strange, strange folks.

***

Jack O’Connor, who made his living – and a very good one – from writing about big-game hunting would, every so often, include a throwaway line like “It’s all for fun and games anyway…” I doubt he really meant it. In fact, I’m sure he didn’t.

José Ortega y Gasset, Spain’s foremost philosopher of the Twentieth Century, devoted some time to the study. In Meditations on Hunting, he concluded that any pastime to which men would devote so much time, enthusiasm, and effort was more than mere recreation. For some, he wrote, it was a calling, like being a poet. Even those who no longer hunt, for whatever reason, still call themselves hunters.

This is not to say that hunting is so serious that it’s wrong to have fun at it. It’s just that a big-game hunter’s idea of fun (like the aforementioned brown-bear hunter) tends to be different than other people’s. Offer a hunter a choice between a month in the lap of luxury on a Caribbean island and two days of hard climbing, dripping rain forest, freezing nights, and a near-death experience with a Cape buffalo on a dead volcano in the Rift Valley, and guess which he would take? While he’s in the crater with a wounded buffalo, he may well wish he had chosen otherwise, but in later years, there are no regrets.

Big-game hunting today is a serious and expensive business, depending where you go and what you hunt. I’ve met a lot of guys who approach it with all the light-heartedness of a liver transplant, intent on the importance of getting this species or that, wanting a head that will make the top ten, or qualify for Boone & Crockett. I sometimes wonder exactly what fun they get out of it, because when they describe their hunting trips they rarely mention anything except the size of the kill, all the while thrusting their iPhones at me, obsessively scrolling pictures.

And you see, there’s the funny thing. Twenty years ago, Harry Selby told me about some of his safaris with Robert Ruark. The thing about Ruark, he said, was that he was always having a great time. No matter what happened – safari car stuck in a river, torrential rains, whatever – Ruark was hugely enjoying himself. He was always having fun, yet no one ever took writing more seriously than he did (well, maybe Hemingway) and writing about hunting was a major part of his life.

Reading Ruark or O’Connor, the best parts are rarely the actual kill, regardless of how big the trophy. It’s always what went before, what came after, and how much fun it all was – even if, perhaps, it did not seem so at the time. Anyone who goes big-game hunting and doesn’t have fun might want to take up golf. It’s cheaper, less effort, and you don’t do it in the rain.

By Brandon Justus

Some men turning 40 consider a birthday trip to Vegas or a golf trip with the guys. I, on the other hand, wanted to travel to one of the most remote hunting destinations in Africa, the Bangweulu Swamps.

It all started in late 2023 when I began planning my birthday blowout with a good friend and fantastic PH, Dave Freeburn from Dave Freeburn Safaris, who researched suitable hunts. I wanted to bring my wife Nicole, who had accompanied me before on hunts, as an observer hell-bent on relaxing. I had only one birthday wish and that was for a free-range sitatunga from one of the few endemic areas. That left us with Uganda and Zambia as our contenders. Zambia’s extensive list of other endemic species made the decision that much easier. As Dave was busy planning and organizing a trip, I was busy building the necessary rifles. I built a Tikka T3X .30-06 especially for the sitatunga as well as the other endemic plains game; and with Livingstone eland and a potential buffalo both on the hit list, I was eager to use my .375 Ruger. With flights booked, weaponry amassed, and anticipation mounting, I patiently awaited the November 2, 2024, departure date.

We arrived in Zambia’s capital city Lusaka, and instantly realized that this is “true Africa.” It was my fifth trip to Africa, but my first outside of South Africa, and found the landscape and climate very different from the various South African regions I had previously visited. Dave picked us up from the airport and we began the first of the three legs of our trip.

The first stop was Kushia Game Ranch, owned and operated by Guy Robinson and his son, Ian, who greeted us on arrival. With Dave’s Uncle Mobie as camp manager for our four days, we truly ate like kings. We quickly settled into our authentic African tent accommodations and prepared for an afternoon hunt. Jody Higgins, another Zambian PH, owner of TIA Safaris Zambia and friend of Dave’s, joined us to share his valuable hunting experience and knowledge. The hunting was hard, and the days were hot, but that did not affect our success. The game list here was extensive but our focus was on Chobe bushbuck, puku, Lichtenstein’s hartebeest, Crawshay’s waterbuck, and the massive Livingstone eland.

The first afternoon we went out to get a lie of the land with Roger, the ranch’s resident game tracker. Roger was a jovial and diligent man who added more than his fair share of laughs to our exhausting days, and this first afternoon proved his worth by spotting a large reedbuck lying in the tall grass, almost invisible. After quite a stalk, we added reedbuck to our list. What followed over the next three days could only be described as sheer and utter success. On the second day we managed to take an eland, waterbuck, puku, and bushbuck. Every hunt has its own story, but the story of note here was how well the .30-06 performed on a brute of an eland. While glassing and spotting we came upon a massive eland bull and, fearing he would see us and spook, we did not have time to change rifles for the .375, but having faith in Jody, Dave and I persevered and, with great bullet placement we were able to drop the heavy beast. We rounded out Kushia Ranch with another bushbuck, this one with a darker coat than the previous one, and an old male hartebeest, as well as another large puku. The first leg of our trip was completed with eight animals in the salt.

The next part of our adventure, the main event, was the Bangweulu Swamps. After a short charter flight from Kushia, we arrived in the southern swamp area to try our luck on black lechwe. I am not sure what I expected, but the hundreds of lechwe made the hunt seem harder. To watch the enormous herds of lechwe feed across the grassy flatland was truly incredible. After finding our bull, we managed our shot from just inside 200 meters, then flew to our Bangweulu camp.

We landed in the nearby town of Mpika and drove the last two hours into camp and, again, I was amazed at how lush and green the vegetation was. We were greeted by the camp manager, Sylvia van Staden. The camp, again, was rustic, authentic Africa with several canvas tent accommodations, this time with en suite bathrooms. Our hunt here was for seven days and with my birthday quickly approaching I was hoping to connect soon with the elusive swamp ghost. We had a permit for reedbuck as well, but our priority was sitatunga. We sat in machans in the mornings and evenings and drove for reedbuck in the late mornings and afternoons. After no success the first couple days, we came right with a nice old reedbuck on the tenth. Our luck was changing. We decided to go back to what we referred to as machan #3 that evening. We had seen two shooter bulls there previously but never got an opportunity to pull the trigger. The weather was not cooperating as it was overcast and windy, although the rain did hold off. After about thirty minutes in the machan, Dave’s keen eyes spotted one of our shooter bulls. However, as fast as he came in, he went out. We hoped he would follow the path we had seen a few sitatunga follow which would lead him to a clearing and, hopefully, we could get a shot there. After an hour of watching the clearing we had given up, and that’s just when he came out. Elatedly Dave whispered, “There he is, get on him.”

Seeing his horns in the scope filled me with nervousness and I fired as quickly as I could, knowing he would soon disappear. The bullet hit from 180 meters. We heard the thud and knew I had hit him. With the sun quickly setting we had no choice but to attempt a retrieval. The tracker and ranger headed into the swamp. Jody and I grabbed the rifle and charged after them assuming our swamp ghost was not yet a real ghost. But when we reached the tracker and ranger it was evident that the sitatunga was still alive but badly wounded. Mortally, I hoped. The swamp being so difficult to move in, we decided to back out, not push the wounded animal in the dark, and come back in the morning. Although we attempted to celebrate and enjoy the night like any other, I was anxious – more, I think, than I have ever been. After my sleepless night we went back the next morning and found him in eight minutes, a mere ten meters from where we were previously looked. Luckily the overnight rains had kept him cool and none of the nearby predators had found him. He was a gorgeous old bull and, as it was now my birthday, November 11 and my wish had been granted, I was already celebrating! Back at camp the staff performed their traditional Chipolo Polo, a song and chant for whenever a sitatunga is taken. Other areas act something similar for leopard or lion.  And it was then that the true celebration began. Much whiskey and wine was consumed, and I cannot thank Jody and Dave enough for giving me this birthday present. After sleeping off our party, we were ready for our third and final leg, Shiwa N’Gandu, the encore to an already fabulous trip.

We travelled back to Mpika by Cruiser and transferred to taxis for the final one-and-a-half-hour drive. The route took us up the Great North Road. The views were stunning. The roadside was fringed with towering acacia umbrella trees with mountains in the background. On arrival we were greeted by the owner, Charles Harvey. Built by his grandfather, Sir Thomas Gore-Browne, Shiwa N’Gandu is Charles’s childhood home and has been in the family since its construction in the 1930s. I find it almost impossible to describe its grandeur. The drive up to the English-style manor, through the enormous blue gum tree-lined driveway, transports one to earlier times. Charles gave us a tour of Shiwa House, settled us into our quarters, then took us for a drive around the 12,000-hectare property. Acacia umbrella trees cover the drier areas, and the massive lake extends its tributaries into the outlying swamps of the lush landscape. At dinner Charles regaled us with stories of his life and the people he knew.  He is quite a storyteller with a wealth of knowledge, and has met, hunted with, and guided some of the most fascinating people on Earth, including many royals.

Our final quest here was a Kafue lechwe and blue duiker, and the next morning the hunt was on, lechwe being our first target as we had seen many nice bulls the previous afternoon. We were unsuccessful the first morning, so Charles offered to come with us in the afternoon, and after a delicious lunch we went for our second attempt at a Kafue lechwe. After an hour or so we came upon a small herd about 800 meters away. The stalk was on. Using the forest for cover we were able to stalk to within 120 meters, and I took a frontal shot at a thick-horned old bull. The bullet struck a bit off-center, breaking the shoulder but evidently clipping a lung, judging by the blood trail. As the old bull ran off, Charles brought up the Cruiser and let loose his perfectly trained dogs. The leader was Delilah, a fiery Jack Russell that would find any spoor and take off like a missile. On her heels was Hunter, another Jack Russell. Following them were the two giant Rhodesian Ridgebacks, Artuk and Tajik, that would easily sort out any issue they came upon. Together the four hounds had developed a system that allowed them to track just about anything, just about anywhere. After bounding from the Cruiser, they found the lechwe about eighty meters away in less than thirty seconds. It was truly a sight to behold.

The following day we struck out for our blue duiker. Having seen a few duikers but unable to connect, we relegated ourselves to a cull shot. Dave was able to take a beautiful old, solitary duiker. Having hunted extremely hard for over ten days, we decided to take a day for relaxation. We drove from Shiwa House to the nearby Kapishya Hot Springs, owned and operated by Charles’ brother Mark. The hot springs were gorgeous. The guys enjoyed the warm water and cold drinks while Nicole enjoyed a Zambian massage.

On the last day, we were expecting to charter back to Lusaka around noon. We had seen numerous signs of bushpig, so I asked for one last-ditch effort at a bushpig, and after a 5 a.m. wake-up and stalk, we took a big, beautiful sow. Thinking the day was over and our homeward journey would begin, Charles offered me his crossbow to take another lechwe. He said it would be the first one taken by crossbow on the property. I jumped at the opportunity and the hunt was on. We managed to get within fifty meters of an old bull, and I let the bolt fly, striking him behind the shoulder on a broadside/quartering away shot, and the bolt exited the tip of the opposite shoulder. Bleeding, he ran into the swamp, again with the dogs close on his heels. After wading through the swamp for 200 meters we finally managed to catch up to him in a deep waterhole. The dogs were doing their job, and he wasn’t going anywhere. Now came the “fun” part – to drag this beautiful lechwe back out of the swamp, a task that Dave and I struggled to accomplish. After what felt like an eternity, we achieved our goal and celebrated a unique hunt.

Then, sadly, it was time to clean up, pack up, and prepare to leave. As Charles’s wife came in on the charter, we made our introductions with her and our goodbyes to everyone else. Shiwa House will remain in my memories forever, and I hope to see it again one day.

I look back fondly on one of the best birthdays I could imagine. Nicole and I had such a great time, and those who helped in any way to make this trip a reality, have our utmost gratitude. There is not a doubt in my mind that we will soon return to the beautiful country of Zambia.

Lion King of Liuwa Plain, affectionately known as Bon Jovi.

By Fergus Flynn

Zambia has always been a spectacular hunting and wildlife destination. It devotes some 30% of its land area to National Parks and GMAs (Game management areas), the equivalent of 225,000 km². The largest is West Zambezi GMA, an area of some 38,000 km². Fifty years ago, the area was rich in wildlife from top to bottom, but the slow and relentless settling of people and the pressure on the fish and game stocks has led to much of the area losing significant numbers in its game population and fish stocks. This has been particularly devastating for the cats, most notably the lion. This, of course, is not unique to this area. Population losses across the Continent are staggering. It is estimated that some 200,000 lions roamed Africa just 100 years ago. Today that figure is closer to 25,000 because of habitat loss, collapsing prey numbers and persecution.

 In Western Zambia, the most famous National Park is Liuwa Plains which, during the rainy season, is host to the second-largest wildebeest migration in Africa after Serengeti/Masai Mara. National Geographic made a wonderful film about the last lioness to survive within Liuwa National Park and she was affectionally known as Lady Liuwa. First seen in 2002, she roamed the plains alone for many years but, remarkably, she trusted humans and was seen around a particular camp for years. An ambitious translocation programme to establish a new base population, took place in 2007 with the support of the Barotse Royal Establishment, the conservation Organisation Africa Parks and the Department of National parks and Wildlife. Ultimately there were two operations involving both males and females being moved from the Kafue National Park to Liuwa NP. Although Lady Liuwa herself never produced cubs, she bonded closely with the new introductions and clearly played a pivotal role in establishing a settled base lion population in the area. She finally died of natural causes in 2017 at an estimated age of 17. The photo at the lead of the article shows how even translocated lion go on to grow magnificent manes. This particular lion is the supreme leader of the pride known as Bon Jovi. He killed his brother to have total dominance of the present pride. The plains environment and plentiful prey could have been significant contributing factors in producing such fine specimens. There are now 15 lions in the area, but they are competing with 300 hyena which may have something to do with the slow increase in the population – purely speculation on my part.

Having been bought up in Uganda and Kenya, I was privileged to visit some of the great East African wildlife conservation blocks including the Masai Mara and Serengeti complex. The black-maned lions in that area were truly magnificent. The sight of big prides dominated by huge males was a sight to behold.

In 1979, aged 26 I was fortunate to be offered a job in my field, that of livestock production with the then biggest cattle and butchery operation in Zambia. The country offered many opportunities to enjoy its rich and varied habitat and wildlife. I was also a keen hunter having shot my first Thompson’s gazelle at aged 10 in Kenya, but in 1977 hunting was banned in that country. In contrast, Zambia has through the decades, provided many opportunities from plains game (Kafue and black lechwe through to Livingstone’s eland) to big game, particularly buffalo. Cats did not feature for most resident hunters, but for the discerning overseas client there were exceptional opportunities including the lion of West Zambezi. I spoke to some residents whose work took them to the west of the country and lions were shot regularly to assist in protecting the local cattle herds. The accompanying photos demonstrate the size of those lion (see the paws!) and their extraordinary manes. Although I never hunted lion (leopard yes) I was hugely interested in Zambian lion and these lions in particular. They were exceptional. There were several professional hunters who stated that the best-maned lions in the country were to be found in the Western block. One professional hunting friend said that he never showed pictures of lion trophies taken there to subsequent clients because they were so superior to any other area in the country, mane-wise.

Some argued that for sheer size the Mumbwa West hunting concession (Kafue) supported the best and were bigger than any found anywhere else in countries where lions were hunted. It is debated to this day, but the lion population of Zambia has always remained healthy numerically, with specimens of exceptional quality to be found. However, it is also a fact that many African countries overshot their quotas because the Game Departments were desperate for revenue. Unfortunately, because of the complexities of lion society, it takes many years to produce a mature lion beyond breeding age, the key factors being space, time and available prey. A rapidly rising human population has put an ever-increasing pressure on that space, and inevitably lion populations have become fragmented, and in many instances are in decline.

In the context of legally taken lion, the selection process for the hunter is much more scientific today than in earlier years, and in 2023 for example, only 18 lions were legally taken in the whole of Zambia for that year. All were fully mature, past their prime, and the number of individual animals was approved by the Department of National Parks through recorded footage by camcorder on baits.

In the last two decades there have been some extraordinary developments on the conservation side where huge areas are being run professionally and effectively to ensure habitat and wildlife protection. And there is a very clear recognition that without the support of the communities living within and around these areas there is no long-term hope. Huge emphasis is presently being placed on education and health, but perhaps the most important element, that of community upliftment/development still holds a relatively low profile in terms of funding. Although in the context of this article we are referring to the Western Province of Zambia, the bigger picture is KAZA (Kavango-Zambezi Trans frontier Conservation area), an area covering 520000 km² involving five different nations and coordinated by Peace Parks.

The Kaza block in more detail (note the location of Sioma Ngwezi and Liuwa Plain). The blue arrows indicate the theoretical movement of elephant and other species within the conservation block.

Presently, only the southern sector of the province falls under the stewardship of KAZA but the conservation block has expanded over recent years so one hopes that the Liuwa Block and beyond may one day be incorporated into a further expansion phase. Two of the fundamental pillars of the agreement is the protection of habitat and wildlife and the provision of corridors to allow the passage of migrating wildlife. Fundamental to the agreement is the participation, involvement and benefit that the communities must gain through the area’s natural resource wealth. The creation of such corridors might just allow isolated lion populations to mix, thus ensuring an injection of new genes on a regular basis. Historically there seems to be little doubt that the famous Liuwa lion and that of Western Zambia were linked to the so called “desert lion” of Namibia/Northern Botswana.

A Sioma Ngwezi lion, an example of the Katanga gene pool of southwest Africa.

The death of a wild lion can only be from fighting with other lions or other species such as hyena; starvation; poisoning; snaring or shooting. Most of those options are lingering and slow. A hunter’s bullet is, in most cases, by far the quickest and most humane. It also offers by far the greatest financial gain to the area in which it was hunted.

Chapter Three

Matobo

Like so many others, I always believed that these amazing formations were the result of bubbling oozing lava that had been squeezed out of the hot bowels of the earth millions of years ago.

But that assumption is wrong. The whole of southern Africa is a single block, a single mass of granite, the stuff which formed the earth’s crust two thousand million years ago.

In many places, like the Matobo hills, other rock ended up on top of the granite mass, and this other rock was prone to weathering.

For two thousand million years nature gradually removed this rock cover, exposing the granite. But nature does not rest. There are no days off, so the granite, in turn, has also been subjected to this relentless weathering. It has been eroded, moulded, cracked, split and sanded. And the amazing shapes and feats of balance that we see today are the result of this unstoppable weathering action.

Not only do these monstrous balancing balls and blocks and stone towers conjure up visions of bubbling lava, they invoke thoughts of mighty earthquakes, ice, floods, cataclysmic volcanic upheavals – it’s difficult to accept that it’s all been created by boring old erosion. But over millions upon millions of years, this has been the cause.

You could stand at Cecil John Rhodes’s “View of the World” or on top of the amphitheatre at Njelele – where the cave of the mlimo hides inside a giant cloven wall, look out into the hills and see a hundred different rockformations. There are basically two types, or class, of hills in the Matobo range. “Whalebacks” and “castle koppies’”

I found an interesting explanation of how these koppies were formed in a book called “The Matopos” written by Sir Robert Tredgold, published in 1956. In that book, Tredgold states that different lines of weakness in the granite, called “joints” are the cause of the different types of hill formations. I quote from his book.

“The difference between them does not lie in any way in the rocks from which they are made, but in the natural weakness, called joints. Which traverse them. All rocks have these lines of weakness, and in granite they take two quite different forms. One kind of jointing consists of practically straight lines in three directions more or less at right angles, two vertical and one horizontal. A feature of the jointing of the Matopos granite is the consistent direction of the vertical sets of joints. One set runs nearly north to south, and the other east to west. This is very clearly seen on aerial photographs or from an aircraft flying over the hills, and these two sets of joints have a profound effect upon the pattern of the rivers which drain the area, on the shapes of the hills, and even on individual boulders.”

This describes the way in which “castle koppies” were formed.

Regarding the “whalebacks”, he had this to say –

The great whalebacks are also joint controlled but on a different pattern. The rectangular joint pattern is still present and fillings of quartz and other types may often be found marking the position of some of them, but their effect is overshadowed by curved joints of large radius like the skin of a gigantic onion, parallel to the surface of the dome. The origin of these curved Joints is by no means clear, but they may have been caused by relief of pressure during the removal by erosion of the overlying load of rock. However this may be, these curved shells separate slightly from the underlying surface and break along the rectangular joints. The loosened blocks slide down the inner skin of the onion and form heaps of jumbled rock round the base of the hills. At times remnants of an outer skin remain as huge rounded boulders on the summit. This is the origin of the boulders which surround Rhodes’ grave. The hill to the north of the grave shows a considerable portion of the outer shell cut up by joints, with weathered blocks beside it. On the precipitous faces below, the edges of out shells can be seen, with a mass of fallen granite blocks at the foot.”

In summing up the geology of the Matobo hills it’s hard to do a better job than Tredgold, so I will borrow one more paragraph from his book.

“No landscape is static, it only appears so by our standard of time. What we see of the Matopos of today is merely a single frame from a long film which began millions of years ago, and will continue for many more. The beginning and end of the film will show much the same scene, an almost level plain, with a few minor hills on it. The two plains will be separated by millions of years in time and several hundred feet in height, but otherwise they would look the same. The action all takes place in the middle part of the film. The rivers deepen and widen their valleys, the great whalebacks emerge. Break down to castles, and then to low mounds. The monotony of the new plain, to which the landscape is tending, appears. It remains until some new uplift rejuvenates the power of the streams, and a new cycle of landscape evolution begins. The sculpture of our Matopos hills began long before men appeared on earth, and it is our good fortune to have come in somewhere in the middle of this continuous performance.”

The People

Whether visiting the Matobo hills for the Bushman paintings, or the scenery, or just a relaxing weekend in the National Park, one inevitably wonders who lived in these secret places? Who was here first? Where did they go? Who came after them?

The Matobo hills are venerated by the African people who are tied to them by history and tradition. Custom dictates that certain hills must not be pointed at for fear of inducing cold, inclement weather or even something far more sinister.

Matobo. Where does that name come from? What does it mean? Elspeth Parry, in her book “A Guide to Rock Art of the Matopo Hills Zimbabwe says this. “Through the years some confusion has arisen over the correct name for the hills, now popularly known as ‘Matopos ‘. However, this is incorrect as the word Matopo, which is used in this book, is already in the plural. The name seems to be a corruption of Matombo the Kalanga word for hills, an alternative corruption, Matobo, is sometimes used.”

Robert Tredgold, in his book “The Matopos” offered this: “The origin of the name is not altogether clear. The early missionaries used Amatopa, and it is obvious that, in the native language, it was a plural form, even without the final ‘s’. It is a pity that we have made this duplication, but it has become too firmly enshrined in common usage to be altered now. Probably it was originally Matombo or Madombo meaning simply “the rocks”. There is a pleasant legend that the name “Matobo” was given to the hills by Umzilikazi. When he looked at the great dwalas and was told they were called “Madamba”, he said “But we will call them ‘Matobo ‘meaning ‘the bald heads’. I like to think the name originated in royal jest. “Matobo” is now the official designation of the native district.”

So whether you choose the Kalanga Matombo – meaning hills, or the Shona Madombo – meaning rocks, or the Sindebele Matobo – meaning bald heads, it seems that mystery not only surrounds the ancient “goings on” in the hills, it surrounds their very name too.

Archaeology shows us evidence of stone age man in the Matobo hills fifty thousand years ago. This later stone-age man, they say, is the direct ancestor of the Khoisan, or our Bushman.

The Bushmen descended from the cave man (stone-age man) and learned to make and use tools and weapons. These early hunters appear to have had the run of the land for thousands of years living with, or as a part of nature, unmolested by the black Bantu tribes, the white man, and civilization. These early inhabitants of the Matobo hills left paintings on the walls of certain caves that have been reliably dated to ten thousand years ago.

The black “Bantu type” people developed in the jungles and rain forest areas of central and west Africa and massive growth in populations there forced them to begin to migrate east and south out of the jungles, into the rest of the continent. They arrived in small numbers on what is now known as the Zimbabwe plateau, between 700 and 900 years after the death of Christ.

This was the arrival of the early iron age in southern Africa. Over the next few centuries these Bantu peoples gradually forced the Bushman out of the Matobo. At first the two different peoples were able to co-exist, as the Bantu tended to favour the level plateau areas where grazing was good, where gold could be found – and the routes of trade easily reached. But as their numbers grew, they spread out, moving into Bushman hunting grounds. Many Bushmen were enslaved or killed by the Blacks and finally they were forced to flee west into the sandy thirst lands which much later became known as Botswana.

The first Bantu grouping, or tribe, that lived in the Matobo region was the Kalanga, or Karanga. These Kalanga originally came from the “Great Zimbabwe” area near Masvingo.

Between 1450 and 1683 another large group of Bantu, also originating from the “Great Zimbabwe” area came west and settled in the Khami area.

These people were known as Torwa, and they then dominated the Kalanga. The Torwa dynasty in turn fractured into clan and family fighting and gradually became a disorderly mess as far as tribal unity was concerned. There was a serious need, or requirement for leadership, and this came in the form of the Rozvi “Mambo”, or king. He quickly dispatched the last Torwa ruler and provided stability and strong leadership to all the people in and around the Matobo. The Rozvi’s headquarters were situated at a place called Danangombe but their spiritual base was in the Matobo hills. Peace and stability enabled the area to prosper for many years. In the early 1800’s the Rozvi Mambo and the spiritual leaders, known as the Mwali came into conflict. Many of the Rozvi people, who lived near and were in daily contact with the Mwali, turned against Mambo’s faction. Massive changes were occurring in southern Africa at this time. From the Cape, in what was to become South Africa, all the way north, almost to the Limpopo river, a kind of upheaval, or unsettling of people turned the whole region into a fiery cauldron of war, famine, and power struggles. It was called the “mfecane” -which directly translated means the crushing or the grinding (like corn between two stones). Armies were moving, expanding, and attacking other tribes constantly.

A group known as the Ngwato attacked the Rozvi in the Matobo in 1817, and the Ngwato leader was killed and his soldiers returned back to their area in what is now Botswana. Shortly after this, more attackers arrived. These were the Swazis – warriors all the way from northern Zululand in South Africa. After these battles with the Swazis, the rapidly fragmenting Rozvi dynasty was weak, and unable to withstand the final invaders. These were the Amandebele, an Nguni people who had also come a long way from what is now Zululand in South Africa.

I mentioned the mfecane. Part of the result of that cataclysmic chain of violent events was the emergence of a powerful, warlike people, called the Zulu under Shaka. The Zulu were situated in the region around what is known today as Durban, in South Africa. One of the clans under Shaka was the Khumalo clan and they were ruled by a chief named Mzilikazi. Mzilikazi ruled well and his people were happy and prosperous. A problem arose for Mzilikazi involving some cattle which Shaka claimed were supposed to have been paid to him by Mzilikazi. ln 1821 Shaka sent troops to attack Mzilikazi and he was defeated, but not wiped out. It was time to go. Yet another “army on the move”, another spin-off from the massive mfecane which caused armies of refugees to march into conflict for the next twenty years.

The Khumalo clan were a nation on a long march. After fleeing Shaka’s wrath, Mzilikazi first settled his people in the foothills of the Drakensburg, but it was not far enough. Further attacks by Shaka’s warriors pushed the Khumalo further north, until they settled again, this time at the western side of the Soutspansberg Mountains. It was here, in 1829, that the missionary Robert Moffat befriended Mzilikazi. Moffat, through his travels, already had knowledge of the land around the Matobo, and during his stay with Mzilikazi, he recommended that Mzilikazi take his people and set up home there. He told Mzilikazi that it was “a well watered, fertile, and relatively unoccupied land”.

Mzilikazi stayed where he was for another eight years, but after suffering another defeat in battle, he took Moffat’s advice and headed north. These Khumalo had absorbed a large number of Ndzundza people in their journey north. These Ndzundzas were also known as “Tebele”, and gradually Mzilikazi’s growing clan adopted this name – arriving in the Matobo and Bulawayo in 1838, known as the Ma-Tebele, or AmaNdebele.

The Ama-Ndebele found the area around Bulawayo under the control of some Ngoni raiders who had destroyed much of the remaining Rozvi settlements, and Mzilikazi took their leader, one Mrs. Nyamazuma, as his wife. Her soldiers were then absorbed into the AmaNdebele army. Mzilikazi, through careful politics and gifts of cattle (and of course the threat of unpleasant violent action), swallowed the resident Kalanga and remaining Rozvis who were obliged to toe the line, surrendering grain and young men to the new King to strengthen the armies.

Mzilikazi absorbed all these fragmented groups but divided “his” people into three castes. The upper caste were all the people from the original Nguni stock who came from Zululand. The second level were the people of Tswana and Sotho stock – who he had conquered or picked up in his journey over the last seventeen years. The lowest caste were any people of Shona stock. These were mostly the Kalangas who bad originally come from the Great Zimbabwe area, and the dribs and drabs of Rozvis and Torwas who still remained. Mzilikazi forbade these three castes from intermarrying, and the subjugated Kalanga and others of the Shona origin were referred to as Ama-Hole (slaves) or Izinja (dogs).

The arrival of the AmaNdebele was the last influx of black tribes into the Matobo. But another visitor had already arrived before the AmaNdebele – the white man. He had not yet arrived in numbers in Mzilikazi’s day- Lobengula, Mzilikazi’s son and the last Matabele King, was faced with that disastrous event. The arrival of the white pioneers. The arrival of the white man, in numbers.

The Mlimo

All Bantu people, whether they come from the steamy jungles of the Congo, the high windswept plateaus of the Drakensburg or from the secret shadows of Matobo, pay reverence to several spirits and a collection of Gods. These spirits include ancestral spirits as well as the spirits who influence, or control the seasons.

But there is one special God, one who is revered above all the others. He is the Mlimo.

Africans have many different cultures, different languages, ceremonies and traditions, so the Mlimo has many different names. In the jungle country in the Congo Basin he is leza, high up on the windswept plateaus of Lesotho he is modimo. To the Shona speaking tribes he is mwari. In east Africa he is ngaai. But here, in the sacred hills of the Matobo he is the Mlimo.

One of the Mlimo’s prime responsibilities is the making of rain. But his power controls many facets of life (and death), including the choosing of chiefs, disease in cattle and man, the planting of crops, and many more.

When the AmaNdebele arrived in the Matobo and Bulawayo areas in 1838, active belief in the Mlimo was already over five hundred years old. It is said that long ago, several priests from “Great Zimbabwe” migrated west into the Hills and found a spiritual home in that secret place.

The AmaNdebele, had their own Gods and spirits, but when they arrived in Matobo and subjugated the Makalanga and other tribes, they decided to pay attention to this Mlimo.

Some ancient traditions say that the Mlimo himself, followed by man and then all the animals, emerged from a hole in the ground, or cave, “far to the north”. He is regarded by many tribes as the Creator.

The fellows from Great Zimbabwe, who set up shop in a cave in the Matobo so long ago, presented themselves as the priests, the representatives of the Mlimo. The Mlimo himself of course had never been seen and could never be seen, although his voice could often be heard. Sometimes the voice was reported as coming from a bird, or the roof of a hut, and sometimes from cattle, but it usually emanated from the depths of a cave where the local con- artist could hide away, unseen, and spin his trickery without getting caught. Representatives from far and wide trekked to the Mlimo’s cave which was situated in a koppie called Njelele, at the very southern edge of the Matobo.

People came from as far as Basutoland, a foot journey of nearly a thousand miles, in order to ask for rain or other favours from the Mlimo. The Priests’ cult has continued, even to this day, the Abantwana, or – children of Mlimo – traveling far and wide weaving their magic and terrifying the locals into giving gifts to the great Mlimo.

The standard gifts taken to Njelele for the Mlimo, on behalf of wealthy folks like the Matabele King, were usually oxen and beer. It must be a foregone conclusion that Old Mlimo enjoyed these greatly, especially as this good stuff was usually delivered by nubile young girls. Average folks used to part with all manner of goods in order to receive favour from the Mlimo, and these included animal horns and ivory, tobacco, spears, axes, cloth, beads and hoes.

Not only did the Mlimo oracle provide guidance, advice and terror to the local people for hundreds of years, he also played an important part in the Matabele Uprising of 1896. The Matabele had been vanquished in 1894 when the last King, Lobengula, fled north into the Zambezi Escarpment after several battles had been fought between his Impis (regiments) and the white settlers’ “flying column”, led by Leander Starr Jameson. The white settlers took over much of the well-watered land in central Matabeleland, and they took over most of the vanquished King’s cattle too. The situation was ripe for unrest and this is where the Mlimo stepped in.

The voice of the Mlimo urged the Matabele to regroup and attack the white settlers, which in due course, they did. The rebellion lasted about six months before the Matabele finally pushed for peace. Leading up to the Uprising the mysterious voice in the hills advocated war and murder through direct, and not so direct “messages” from the Mlimo.

Some of these messages promised that one day soon all white men would die, and another stated that the white man’s bullets would turn to water.

Much controversy surrounds the killing of a black man in the Matobo on June 27th, 1896. Two scouts, named Armstrong and Burnham received information on the whereabouts of the secret cave of the Mlimo -where much of the trouble emanated regarding the Matabele Uprising. These two set out and, in circumstances still argued and debated to this day, found and killed the Mlimo, or one of his priests, anyway. It is said that the Mlimo deception died in the Matobo that day, and several books state this.

But even to this day, witchdoctors – priests, oracles, whatever you want to call them – still sneak about in the Matobo’s dark caves, clacking and jangling with the horns and bones and magic things which festoon them, and these spirit men still receive requests for, and promise rain on behalf of the great Mlimo. Ask any old Kalanga or Matabele elder, who still knows the old ways, and he will tell you that the Mlimo most certainly is still there in the Matobo; “After all” he will say “how can you kill the Creator?”

Mangwe Pass

Myths have swirled in and around these hills forever. How they formed. How they were named. Who lived in them? The Bushmen, the Mlimo, the spirits, many myths.

One of the smaller ones was that the Mangwe Pass became so well known because it was the only way that the early wagons of the settlers could get through the east-west line of the koppies on their way to the “interior”. This is not true. I personally know of many passes through these hills. In fact, a wider, easier route lies just a little way to the east of the Mangwe Pass, right around the base of the koppie on the summit of which our base camp stands.

A hunter/trader named Johannes Lee was the first white man to settle in the area, and this settlement, and Lee’s appointment by King Mzilikazi as his “agent”, attracted the trickle, then the stream, of white settlers into using this pass.

The natural route north from the heart of South Africa leads around the western end of the Soutspansberg Mountain range, across the Limpopo at Fort Tuli, across the Shashi, Tati, Ramaquabane and Umpakwe rivers, and then finally the Ingwezi. This route steers safely east of the great desert thirst lands in what is now Botswana. The trails taken by the old ox wagons had to, out of necessity, take cognizance of tsetse fly belts, best level ground, hostile natives and, of course, available water.

When King Mzilikazi saw the route that the settlers, explorers and hunters were using, he established an outpost near the lngwezi river at Makobi, about thirty miles south of where the Mangwe Pass is today. The people stationed at this outpost were instructed to make sure that no outsider entered the Matabele Kingdom unannounced.

In 1853 small groups of Afrikaner elephant hunters entered Matabeleland, and the following year, one of the new arrivals was Robert Moffat – an Englishman who had established a mission at Kuruman. The famous explorer, David Livingstone, was married to one of Moffat’s daughters, May. Moffat was friendly with Mzilikazi, having already met him in 1829 when the Matabele were living near the Soutspansberg Mountains before they moved north and conquered Matabeleland.

Over the next six years the stream of white travellers grew. Moffat returned twice, and on his third visit in 1859, managed to secure permission from Mzilikazi to open a mission at Nyati, north of Bulawayo, which was manned by, among others, Moffat’s son, John.

Johannes Lee arrived at Mzilikazi’s outpost near the Ingwezi at Makobi, in 1861, and he obtained permission to settle near the confluence of the Umpakwe and Ramaquabane rivers. Lee was a hunter and a trader, and he wandered the interior collecting ivory, skins and meat.

So many colourful characters enrichened the early settling of Africa; what tough, adventurous, interesting individuals they must have been. I wish I knew more about Johannes Lee. Lee is an English name, and according to Mary Clarke in her book “The Plumtree Papers” 1983 – Lee’s name was Johannes Ludewikus Lee, and he was born in the Eastern Cape, in 1827. His father was a Captain in the Royal Navy, and with a name like Johannes Ludewikus, I can only assume that his mother must have been Dutch.

Johannes Lee was a seasoned, tough character. Before he undertook the great trek all the way north to the Mangwe, he was already the veteran of three Cape frontier wars fought in 1846, 1851 and 1858. Even though he sported the English moniker of “Lee”, Johannes spoke very little of the Queen’s language. His language was Dutch, along with Xhosa, Zulu, and finally Sindebele.

In 1863 Mzilikazi sent an impi of warriors down to the outpost at Makobi in order to issue disciplinary action to the Mangwalo people living there. A thousand people were killed and the outpost obliterated. The King ordered a new outpost established, and this one was sited near where the Mangwe Pass is today.

Lee by this time had established a congenial relationship with the Matabele, and Mzilikazi appointed him his “agent” – the person responsiblefor monitoring and controlling the growing stream of adventurers from the south.

No one was permitted to travel into Matabeleland without first obtaining the King’s permission. Since Makobi was no more, Lee set up his new headquarters on the Mangwe river, a couple of miles south of where our camp at the Pass is today.

Lee was told by Mzilikazi to ride on horseback for an hour and a quarter, towards each point of the compass, and all land within that boundary, would belong to Lee. Lee’s nephew Karel did the riding that day and he was able to ride around more than 200 square miles of ground. Interestingly, Lee’s land was confiscated by the British South Africa Company during their occupation of Matabeleland in 1893 – because Lee refused to assist the Company against his friends the Matabele!

In due course Lee’s new farm became a colourful, spread out, hodge podge gathering of people, wagons and livestock. Many of the travelers had to camp here indefinitely whilst they waited for Mzilikazi, and later Lobengula, to grant them permission to enter the country. Shops were established, followed by wheelwrights, a tannery and even a blacksmith. Camps, dwellings and settlements expanded rapidly.

I was surprised to read that the famous painter Thomas Baines lived in Lee’s settlement for a time, and he painted several pictures there, depicting the kaleidoscopic action of life in a raw new frontier.

If Johannes Ludewikus Lee had owned a visitors book it would have been a real who’s who of the famous old hunting names – Cornelius Van Rooyen, Frederick Courteney Selous, William Finaughty, Frikkie Greef and many more. Greef was prominent in this early white history of the Mangwe Pass area – he was a friend of Johannes Lee’s and once looked after Lee’s farm for about five years. Greef was born in about 1849, and spent many years hunting and trading in the Matabele interior as well as in South West Africa. Johannes Lee was certainly a controversial, colourful character. He was at various times great friend and confidante of King Mzilikazi and then his son, King Lobengula. He lived in this Mangwe area on and off for about thirty years, and went through at least four wives, becoming something of a legend in his time. After failing to regain his land from the BSA Company, sadly he ended up in Potchefstroom in South Africa where he died penniless in 1915.

Many explorers and travelers of the time wrote books and other accountsof their journeys north into the new interior and all of them speak of Lee’s “Castle”.

A small koppie, surmounted by two giant upright blocks of granite rise out of the mopane woodland close to the site of Lee’s house and these famous landmarks were named Lee’s Castle, and those ancient rocks are still known by that name today. Often we climb onto the open granite whaleback dome behind our kitchen at the Mangwe Pass camp and we sit there, awed at the sheer size and magnificence of the view to the south, and only about a mile or so away, Lee’s Castle stands straight and timeless, the only remaining feature of the once bustling Mangwe Pass settlement.

In 1893 a “fort” had been constructed at the Mangwe settlement. This construction was circular, about eighty feet in diameter, and consisted of low stone walls, and was roofed with mopane poles, grass and sandbags. The fort was built as a possible refuge if the settlers were to come under attack from the natives. Forts were common procedure of the time and hundreds of ruins of forts of all shapes and sizes today litter the bush throughout southern Africa. The fort at Mangwe was not used for defensive purposes until 1896, when the Matabele Rebellion broke out.

Throughout the six months of the Matabele uprising about one hundred and fifty people made use of the fort at one time or another but even though the uprising killed ten per cent of the white population of Rhodesia, it never came under attack. The fort and surrounding area were under the command of a Major Armstrong, but Hans Lee, son of Johannes Lee, along with the well known hunter Van Rooyen, had much to do with the management and discipline required to run the fort.

When the Matabele surrendered in September of 1896 the settlers returned to their farms, but their crops had been burned, their homes looted and cattle stolen. 1896 was a dry year and that fact, on top of the sacking of the farms, caused a serious lack of food which required huge wagon trains of maize to be pulled all the way from South Africa.

It was not long before the railroad was making rapid headway into Matabeleland from Botswana and many settler families packed up and moved north, closer to the railway line and small villages which it spawned. In 1897 the garrison of the fort was down to about six troopers. A quote from the Bulawayo Chronicle, dated May 31, 1897, reads as follows: “Arrived Mangwe. Fort deserted. Police removed thirty miles west, near railway. One telegraphist and one storekeeper here.”

But the Mangwe Pass was still there. The same brooding cliffs and boulders continued to watch, but the importance of the Pass, its “heyday”, was gone. My wife’s uncle, Ernest Rosenfels is married to Betty, the sister of my wife’s mother Lucy. Ernest and Betty live on a farm, just a few miles west of the pass. Ernest is a craftsman. He can cut perfect blocks from the raw Matobo granite and I have seen numerous houses, cattle dip tanks and other buildings built precisely and beautifully by him and his men. In 1954, one hundred years after the first wagon creaked this way, he built a monument at the Mangwe Pass. It still stands there today – commemorating this once famous “gateway to Matabeleland”. On its northern face are inscribed these words:

“One hundred years ago the first of the missionaries, hunters and traders passed slowly and resolutely along this way. Honour their memory. They revealed to those who followed, the bounties of a country they themselves might not enjoy.”

Whenever I stop and sit alone, quietly near the monument, especially when the tired sun is sliding slowly into the old hills in the late evening, and the rocks and crevasses are darkening up for the night, I imagine I hear, far away, the laughter and talking at the wagons and the popping shots of the long whip and the muted bellows of the oxen as my people slowly come north.

Written by Marina Lamprecht

Late one November evening, the sounds of a predator on the prowl were heard near the lodge – a carnivore, hunting …

At dawn the following day, clear leopard tracks were seen on the edge of our garden, as well as signs of a scuffle and traces of blood – the hunt had been a success.

A day later my son, Hanns-Louis’ German Shorthaired Pointer, Tau, proudly strutted onto the front lawn, gently cradling something in his mouth, and very carefully, with a pleading look in his eyes, placed an emaciated Duiker lamb at the feet of Max – the mother had clearly fallen prey to the Leopard.

Max, our farm manager, was a man of great empathy and compassion for all living creatures. He called us all and collectively we scrambled for advice on what to do in order to save the fragile lamb. 

After about two months, he became less dependent on being bottle-fed and started very selectively feasting in our vegetable and herb garden – the only member of our team who was not thrilled was Chef Henock, as his supply of fresh herbs and lettuce dwindled!

Bok Bok soon began to wander off into the veldt for a few hours at a time, and later for days.  He returned often to play games with our dogs, especially Tau, and would often strut through the lodge, very confidently hopping up the stairs to Hanns-Louis’ office.

Now that Bok Bok is about 18 months old, his visits have become less frequent. He is regularly spotted just beyond the driveway with another Duiker, having clearly, to our delight, made a friend. 

While his companion keeps its distance and watches him with great curiosity, Bok Bok still meanders into the veggie gardens for a snack and gets up to lots of mischief with his best friend and saviour Tau. He then returns to the veldt to live wild and free – that was always our wish for him.

Into The Thorns

Chapter Two

Smell of The Hills

I was seven years and five months old when I was deposited on the hostel steps at Rhodes Estate Preparatory School. REPS (as it was called) is a boys boarding school and, in 1968, in true colonial tradition, was for whites only. The school is situated at the edge of the Matobo Hills, about twenty miles south of Bulawayo, and it was my home for the next five years. Like the twenty or so other kids who started school at REPS that year, I was awed at the immensity of the prospect facing me, and I was rendered weak with anxiety and homesickness. I look at seven-year-old children today and I cannot imagine sending them away to school for three months at a time. They seem like babies. But in rural Rhodesia in 1968 there were no choices, your mother packed your black metal trunk and away you went off to boarding school.

Cecil John Rhodes, the swashbuckling Englishman who made a fortune in the South African diamond mines and goldfields between 1870 and 1890, was instrumental in conquering and colonising the land between the Limpopo and Zambezi rivers once known as Munhumutapha. With little evidence of modesty he named this beautiful new land Rhodesia, and it was swept into the basket, along with numerous other acquisitions also labelled “British Empire”. This was in 1893. In 1965 however, the colonials decided that they wanted to rule themselves, and they declared independence from Britain, who wanted to hand their Rhodesian conquest back to the black Africans from whom they had taken it. A bitter war followed, between the black Africans on one hand, who were trained and backed by the communist Chinese and Russians, and the white colonialists on the other. White Rhodesia was placed under sanctions by the world powers, and trade, arms and fuel embargos made war a difficult thing for the Rhodesians to maintain. So, in 1980, after approximately forty thousand deaths, the county was handed back to the blacks, and Zimbabwe was born.

During his years of travel in Rhodesia, his new country, Rhodes fell in love with two places in particular, and he had dwellings erected at both of them. One was Inyanga, a verdant misty spot nestled amongst towering mountains and forests on Rhodesia’s eastern border with Mozambique. The other was the Matobo hills. Rhodes found a place in the hills which commanded breathtaking views over the broken granite koppies, and he named this spot World’s View. He was buried there in 1902 according to instructions in his will, and it was no easy task bringing his body all the way from Cape Town, so that his remains could lie in the place he had loved so well.

Also in Rhodes’s will were instructions to build a boys school on a piece of land near his summerhouse. World’s View is situated about six miles south of the school. Rhodes’s summerhouse, and the school, stand at the foot of a long low grassy ridge that runs in an east-west line about half a mile north of the beginning of the granite koppies. I found it curious that someone who loved the Matobo hills so much would choose to build a summerhouse, and designate land for a school, on ground which was near to but not actually within the hills themselves. Reps consisted of the boarding hostel which had five dormitories, a chapel, a classroom block with five classrooms, a dining·hall, kitchen, a hospital, and the main hall. Scattered about were also various small maintenance buildings like the groundsman’s office and there were also four sports fields, a swimming pool and tennis courts. 1 did not think so then, but it is a beautiful, well planned and well laid out school. Very English. Compared to some of the “town” schools in Bulawayo. it was a small school with only about one hundred and twenty pupils. The school’s rugby first fifteen was drawn from a total of 28 standard five boys. It was surprising, with so few pupils, that Reps always did so well at sport. I suppose it had something to do with the fact that everybody, no matter how fat, thin, short or weak, had to play sport. This was not the case with the town schools. Once the initial shock of boarding school had dulled a little, we ‘new boys’ as we were referred to, began to assess the situation we found ourselves in. Some kids were able to make friends easily, while the less gregarious ones chose to pull into themselves and go it alone, wracked with homesickness. A few kids, like myself, discovered that this place was rich adventure indeed. I too was horribly homesick, but really only at night or when we had nothing to do. Thankfully, at boarding school there are very few times when there is nothing to do.

like a blanket. No matter how hard I resolved, in bed at night, that I would make it through the next day without getting into trouble, trouble would find me like a twin. I cannot explain it, really. I’m positive that I never ever sat there and said to myself, “Right, lets see what kind of stupid risky thing I can go and do now so I can get thrashed”. It just seemed that it swooped down on me like an owl on a mouse. Of course the things that appealed to me, like shooting birds with a catapult – Reps was a National Parks area – sneaking into locked storerooms, stealing fruit off of mulberry trees in “out of bounds” areas, were “boys things”, and if I were faced with that time all over again I would do them. But it’s the other things. Breaking windows with pebbles shot from catapults, chopping the heads off red-hot-poker flowers in the school gardens, these things I cannot explain.

I’m pretty certain I was sent to Reps in particular, because it was a “strict discipline” school, and I was a problem child. The seniority system in both Reps, and later at Plumtree High School, was, I think, the strength of the discipline system. You could not, and would not, even speak to a pupil in a form above yourself without inviting abuse, both verbal and physical. You only spoke to these ‘seniors’ when spoken to. Of course the teachers and matrons were in charge, but much of the discipline and punishment was handed out by the pupils. Bullying was as common as our oatmeal porridge in the mornings. I cannot say if this boarding school seniority is a good thing or a bad thing. Children either could not take it, and left the school, or they did take it and they finished. Looking back now, obviously it’s not a good thing for the weak or somehow disadvantaged children, because children can be merciless to one another, and if you could not stand up for yourself you were doomed. I was insubordinate and rebellious to seniors trying to discipline me or give me a hard time, and in my five years at Reps they failed to get me straightened out. It was only at Plumtree (a sort of unofficially accepted high school for Reps pupils) that finally, in my second year there, I was made to realise that fighting the system was over. So ultimately, I would have to say that the English-type, boys-only boarding school system was a good thing for me personally, and stood me in excellent stead for endeavours later in life. It built things like self-reliance, discipline, strength, both physical and mental, and it taught one how to find the avenues of least resistance and how to avoid pitfalls.

Most Plumtree boys who went into the Rhodesian army had no problem coping with recruits’ courses or basic training courses, and many of them climbed the officer ranks efficiently and quickly. The army commander, General Peter Walls, was an ex-Plumtree schoolboy, and it is quite astounding to see how many of the army hierarchy, and commanders of the regular army units were ex-Plumtree boys, especially when one considers how small the school was (plus or minus 400 pupils). So even though the constant threat of seniority and beatings with ‘the cane’ (a piece of bamboo about six feet long) clouded my horizon, Reps school, situated at the edge of the wild Matobo hills, was my first glimpse of adventure.

I quickly became friends with a boy in that new class named Graham Robertson. Graham came from a ranch south of Marula, about 50 miles west of Reps. We both loved the outdoors and both of us were children born for trouble. Fate, or destiny, or pure coincidence, whatever you want to call it, plaited a rope that mixed our two lives together in a part of the world where political turmoil, guerrilla war and other violent circumstances, shredded families and friendships every day. Yet here we are, 38 years later, still close friends and still enjoying adventures in the same Matobo hills. When we left high school and went in to the army, Graham opted for an airborne infantry unit, and I went on an officer’s course. Seven months later, we found ourselves not only in the same airborne unit, but in the same commando! (Airborne equivalent of a company). One year later I met a cousin of Graham’s who lived in Salisbury – this was Margie, the woman who a few years later I was to marry.

Reps permitted the children to go out of the school grounds on Sundays on what were called “exeats”. There had to be a minimum of four in your group, and you had to “sign out” in a register with the duty teacher when you left the school grounds. In this register went the names of everyone in your group, and the name of the place you were going to. Most of the destinations were in, or right on the edge of the Matobo Hills. The kitchen supplied us with picnic lunches, which to a child at boarding school, was a treat and adventure all by itself! Those day-exeats back in the late sixties seemed such a big deal, the distances walked, the adventure, seemed so great. It’s hard to believe when I returned to the school more than twenty years later, how small the school and grounds actually were, and how close our exeat destinations were to the school. I would have sworn that these places were a good four or five miles away, but in reality the furthest was no more than two miles. But I suppose two miles, to a nine year old, with no teacher or adult present, is as good as ten miles to us today! After all these years, I still remember those exeat destination names – they gave the same thrill to us then, as Zanzibar, Timbuktu or Panama may give to adventure-dreaming adults today! There was Tabaccies, First Bru, Second Bru, Arboretum, Second sister, Tonking Rock, Chennels’ Dam, Sandy Spruit and Devil’s Arsehole. Young local African boys used to make small, carved baboons which they cleverly covered with dassie skin. Lucky-bean seeds (red with a black dot) were used for the eyes, and we admired these things greatly. We had no money, so entering into a trade was difficult. We finally solved the impasse by trading away our underpants and handkerchiefs, in our opinion the least important of our belongings. My wife found it strange when she first found out that I owned no underwear, but I think she found the explanation even stranger.

All these recollections, even today, bring back fond memories of what were indeed exciting times. These exeats were not without danger. Children can find mishap in an empty room, let alone in granite koppies, rusty fences, dip tanks and dilapidated buildings. One kid in our class fell down a steep rocky slope and smashed most of his teeth out in the process. Although they were highly illegal, Graham and I had several catapults with which we were deadly. When school term commenced, at least one of us would have smuggled some good rubber back in our school trunks, and we hoarded this rubber carefully. In order to make powerful catapults one needed either unperished red car-tube (the black one was less powerful) or what we called “mining rubber”. This was a highly elastic, powerful, square shaped (in section) rubber which we prized above all other kinds. We were experts at making catapults and we were experts in firing them too. If we were unable to find any suitable leather, we used to cut the tongues out of our shoes in order to make the “velletjie” – the small leather patch attached to the ends of the rubber which held your missile. (Usually a small stone.) We hid these catapults in secret hiding places in a stone wall behind the chapel, and we used them whenever we were able to sneak away from school duties. Whilst other kids were playing on jungle gyms or with marbles, Graham and I were shooting out light bulbs, windows, signs and sometimes other children. More often though we were doing our damndest to kill any kind of bird we could. We must have caused the Reps groundsman untold misery. If we weren’t shooting holes through his office windows, we were stealing rubber from the hosepipes. Thin rubber strips are used in Africa to repair cracks and holes in hosepipes. The headmaster of our school had the same surname as l did but to my knowledge was not a relative (probably much to his relief). His name was Ray Grant and he was, certainly to us in those days, a big beefy fellow. l think, looking back, that when he realised, after our seventh or eighth beating, that Graham and l were going to be regulars in the punishment line, he actually developed a fondness for the two of us. Ray Grant, like ourselves, loved the outdoors. He loved guns and he loved hunting and he loved shooting. He ran a shooting club for the standard five students (12 year olds) using .22 rifles, and the school had a nicely laid out shooting range. I remember Graham winning the Reps shooting trophy in 1972.

At Reps, if you were caught in some activity during the week that necessitated a thrashing with the cane, you were not beaten there and then. You had to wait until Sunday, after church and inspection, and then line up outside the headmaster’s office. The waiting, in my experienced opinion, was far worse than the thrashing itself. I would feel nauseous for days knowing what was coming on Sunday. The headmaster’s office was at the end of a long open veranda which ran outside the standard one dormitory. The kids destined for a beating had to line up on this veranda at the doorway to the office. Some kids used to snivel their way to the back of the line, but to Graham and I this made no sense; you were just prolonging the agony even further. Unless there were boys more senior to the two of us in the line, we would go first and second. It was a sickening feeling listening to the whip – clap, whip-clap of someone taking a caning only a couple of yards away behind the closed door. Sometimes you’d even hear the pleading whine of some snivelling wretch trying to evade the cane. It was funny recounting it afterwards, but it wasn’t funny when you were next. The drill was to take your punishment like a man, walk sedately out of the office (remember, a whole dormitory of standard ones was looking out the windows) until you reached the central passage which ran through the building, past the baths and out to the back toilets. Once you reached this passage no one could see you, and you could run like hell, rubbing your backside feverishly, all the way to the toilets where you would strip down and try your hardest to crane your neck around enough to see the rapidly swelling welts and, sometimes, cuts on your aching pink flesh. Once Graham and I were in standard four (eleven years old) and were regulars for Sunday canings, a complication arose. As I have said, Ray Grant had taken a liking to us, and one day he told us to remain behind, on the veranda, after our thrashing. We looked at one another, startled. Jesus. What now? After the beating, my backside on fire, I stood forlornly outside the office trying my hardest not to touch that stinging flesh in front of the other kids. Everybody in line was thrashed and sent away except the two of us. We heard clanking, the unmistakable sound of the safe being opened. Ray Grant came out with a couple of shotguns, a rifle, oil, cleaning rags and a push rod. We then passed an anxious, but pleasant half hour helping the headmaster clean his guns! All the while we were treated to his latest hunting stories! If it weren’t for the circumstances which found us there and our aching backsides, it would have been a pleasant enough chore for a Sunday morning. This guncleaning duty became a fairly regular diversion from normal school routine, and we would have looked forward to it were it not for that unpleasant thing which always preceded it.

Sunday, beatings aside, was our day! When the wake-up bell rang, we made our beds carefully, as this was inspection day. We had to dress in our “number ones” – grey flannel shorts, belt, long socks, black shoes, white shirt, tie and blazer. After breakfast we would stand next to the open wooden locker at the foot of our bed and wait for the headmaster. When he arrived, accompanied by our dormitory matron, he would stroll along stopping at each pupil. We would hold our hands up; palms upward, then turn them over, and then put them back by our sides. He would then look at our bed, inside our (recently tidied) locker and then at our shoes. If you had prepared properly, he would walk on. We had a few scruffy kids in our dormitory, however, that never ever made it through an inspection unscathed. After inspection we all marched down to the school chapel where we sang and sniggered stupidly for about an hour. After chapel we would run like mad things back to the dormitories and change into our khakis and “velskoene” (desert shoes), which was standard Reps attire. We were ready!

We could now collect our lunch boxes and sign out for “exeats”. How I loved that feeling of leaving the school grounds with my catapult tucked into my pants, my sheath knife on my belt, headed for a whole day of adventure into the Matobo hills. Many people look askance at us when we mention our knives at junior school. Any pupil, no matter what his age, was allowed a knife at this school. They were prized possessions and lay importantly in your locker on display. I never ever heard of a Reps boy being stabbed, or hurt, or threatened, by another pupil with a knife. On some exeats we tried fishing, but most of our trips were taken up with climbing and exploring the hills, shooting at lizards, birds and other groups of kids with our catapults. The groups of “townie” kids took a lot of flak from us with our “cattys” as we called them, and fights were common. We killed birds quite frequently and these were turned into “biltong”. We used to pluck the bird, no matter whether it was a dove or a honey sucker, cut the guts out, then spear the small carcass on a thorn, well hidden from view. With salt stolen from the dining room at meal times, we would carefully treat the meat. Two days later, voila! Biltong!

At about nine years of age Graham and I began to trap rats. We had no conventional pressed-tin spring traps, but we had several homemade traps that were surprisingly efficient. The trap we used most was a tricky affair created with a brick, or even a flat rock, a piece of string and a mealie pip. We caught many rats this way. Some of the bigger rats would still be alive, and part way out from under the brick when we arrived to check the traps in the morning. These we dispatched with our sheath knives. I still recall clearly, today, the feeling of excitement and anticipation when approaching those simple traps. I still feel the same excitement when checking leopard baits today! People often ask, “What in the hell did you want to catch rats for? What did you do with them?” I can only answer that it was our form of hunting. We loved it. This pursuit took us into the bush, or certainly, if not in the bush, out of the school buildings and into an environment where we could test our skills, our wits, against animals. It was exciting, and doubly so if we were trapping in an area which was “out of bounds”, -areas where schoolboys were not allowed. As to what we did with them. Our sheath knives were too large and blunt and cumbersome to skin rats, so we liberated a few pencil sharpener blades from sharpeners in the classroom. With these we were able to skin our trophies. We then salted them with table salt pocketed in the dining room, and we forced one of the junior boys in the class beneath us to store the stinking things underneath clothing in his footlocker. We had no plans for the skins past that point.

Another successful method, one which could deliver live rats, concerned the use of a jam tin. The kitchen used to receive government-issued food, and the jam (jelly to Americans) used to come in sealed silver tins about a foot high and about eight inches in diameter. Graham and I used to cadge these tins when they were empty, from the African kitchen staff. The tins were buried, the lip level with the ground in some secret carefully selected spot. We then had an option. The simplest method was stretching a piece of thin wire or string, over the top of the buried tin, with a mealie pip tied in the middle. Our prey would try like hell to get to the mealie pip and when they tried the tightrope walk, they ended up in the bottom of the tin. You could collect several rats or mice in one night this way, and if you wanted to find them dead you would leave about four inches of water in the tin. But the far more complicated, and therefore favoured method, was to erect a small seesaw at the side of the can. A flat thin piece of wood (stolen rulers broken to about eight inches long, were good) was wired just passed its middle point, onto a fulcrum. Picture a capital H. The ruler was wired to the crossbar of the H, the slightly longer, or heavier part, being on the ground. The shorter, lighter part, stuck up in the air at about a twenty-degree angle. The mealie pip was glued, or tied to the top of this short end. This pip would be out over the sunken tin. When the hungry rat walked the plank, he was tilted into the tin. We spent hours perfecting these things and derived much satisfaction from them. Relatives were allowed to take children out of the school grounds on Sundays, and usually these day trips were spent in the Matopos National Park, or at one of the many beautiful picnic sites in the hills. I had an aunt who lived in Bulawayo and occasionally she used to take myself and a friend or two out for the day. These were real “bonus” exeats as we got to eat stuff like sweets and cokes which we hardly ever saw at school, and we were able to spend hours climbing and exploring the giant koppies near World’s View where Rhodes was buried. This area is rich in Bushman paintings and we loved to pore over the fascinating scenes of ancient hunts and sift through the pieces of broken pottery on the floors of the caves. During the three-month school term there was a “half term” holiday which was usually about four days long. Those of us who lived a long way from Reps (I lived at Victoria Falls – about 300 miles away) were not able to go home, as most of the short holiday would have been spent travelling, so on these mid-term holidays, if I was not instructed to go to my aunt in Bulawayo, I would go home with Graham to his family ranch at Marula. If we got into “lots” of trouble at school, I do not know how to describe the amount of nonsense we got up to on those four-day long holidays at Marula. We were now armed with pellet guns and rifles and there were no seniors present. Those were excellent days, and the mystery, and secret places of the Matobo hills by now had me enthralled. The caves, the Bushman paintings, the ancient Kalanga grain bins hidden in the bushchoked crevasses, all these thrilled the ‘explorer’ in me. On Graham’s farm we had free reign to enjoy the koppies as much as we wanted. We were merciless in our decimation of the rock hyrax, and even though he denies it, I am sure that our excesses in these hills as schoolboys is what prompted Graham to ban the shooting of these interesting creatures on his ranch once be took over ownership of it. Today they are numerous, and I’m certain that they provide the bulk of the leopards’ food in these areas. By the end of our fifth year at Reps we had explored just about every forbidden area surrounding the school, we had mounted numerous exciting, nerve-wracking forays into the Agricultural Research Station grounds as well as into the Matobo hills past First Bru and Tabaccies.

Graham and I had painstakingly laid plans for an assault on my home stomping-grounds up at Victoria Falls for the school holidays. We had talked and talked of the exciting things we were going to do, and we were eagerly looking forward to the end of the school term, when a devastating blow fell. Ray Grant, he of the whistling cane and numerous hunting stories, realised that no good could come of the two of us loose together in the school holidays. He took it upon himself to ‘phone Graham’s parents and he warned them strongly about the trouble we were likely to cause, and Graham was barred from that trip. Probably a good thing too, looking back.

Victoria Falls was a small village back in 1968 and I don’t think that there could have been more than a hundred or so white families living there. For someone as hell-bent as I was for getting into mischief and disappearing into the outdoors, Victoria Falls was perfect. The whole of the Victoria Falls area lies inside a National Park and big game roamed constantly through the town. Elephant and buffalo came into contact almost daily with residents and the few tourists brave enough or stupid enough to be visiting the Falls during those years (Rhodesia being at war), and injuries were common. I spent much of my school holidays roaming the outskirts of the town, and when I was about fourteen or so, a friend and I started exploring the Zambezi river just above the Falls. This part of the river is clogged with jungled islands, and all of these were populated by elephant, bushbuck, bushpig, hippo and crocodiles. I became a skilled poacher and looking back now, I shake my head in dismay. My parents, in fact no one at all, had any control over us back then and the stuff we got up to makes me wonder how I am still alive today.

I remember one particularly unpleasant incident when I was about sixteen years old. My friend and I had been fishing and poaching on a large island just below what is known as Hippo Pools, about a mile above the lip of Devil’s Cataract which forms the western-most cataract of the Falls. We had a small ten foot boat powered by a twenty horsepower Evinrude motor which had cut out. My friend was standing on a rock, holding the boat while I tried to repair the engine. We could hear very little over the thunderous roar of the Falls, and when I looked up I saw that a Zambian police boat was making its way toward us. There were three people on board, and two of them were holding machine guns. One fellow was gesturing for us to come towards him. We were on the Zambian side of the river and it was obvious that they wanted to arrest us. The international boundary between Zambia and Rhodesia lay down the centre of the main channel, and anyone boating down to the islands at the lip of the Falls had to slide over onto the Zambian side occasionally. This was not good. Not only would we be dragged across to Zambia and cause an international incident, but we had a bushbuck and some large bream in the boat, which we had shot with a .22 rifle that morning. My friend Gary grabbed the rope tied to the front of the boat and we leaped into the fast running water, keeping the boat between ourselves and the Zambian police. We floated quickly downstream back to the islands where the Zambians could not follow because of the shallow rapids. How one of us was not taken by one of the numerous aggressive crocodiles there, I do not know.

In January of 1973 I entered Plumtree High School and was directed to Grey House, which was to be my boarding “house” – or hostel, for the next six years. Erroneously, I had assumed that Plumtree, as regards bullying and seniority, was going to be along the same lines as that which we bad experienced at Reps. I don’t think I have ever been so wrong about anything in my life. I was not caned by the teachers nearly so much as I was at junior school, but the sheer brutality of the seniority and bullying system shocked me. We were hung in sleeping bags out of the windows of moving trains, we were electrocuted, and we were thrashed, kicked, beaten and mentally abused. It was a torrid time for someone like myself who was unable to stay out of trouble and naturally rebellious. The seniors hated me and by God I hated them back. But it was not only the seniors. Children, as mentioned before, are horrible things to one another and the weak were unable to survive under these conditions. In my form alone, out of the twenty or so that entered Grey House as new boys in 1973, I think at least six got their parents to take them to another school after being teased and victimised mercilessly by the other children in the same dormitory. Us, in other words.

Graham had entered Milner, a different hostel to the one I was in, and that was probably a good thing. The last thing we needed, while trying to cope with all the dangers and pitfalls of a new school, was the stupid egging-on into naughtiness, that the two of us were famous for.

Plumtree is situated right on the country’s western border with Botswana, parallel to, and sixty miles west of Bulawayo. It is a dry dusty thorn veld area extremely unattractive in appearance and it falls into “semi desert” region which gradually merges into desert proper in Botswana. It sits right at the north western-most tip of the Matobo hill range, where the hills peter out into the sand and thorn scrub. If you climb the school chapel belfry and look south, you can see the purple koppies of the western Matobo about three miles away.

Surviving six years of Plumtree could be a book all by itself, so I will have to ignore the details of what was a very formative part of my life, and mention only those interludes pertinent to this book. Once again, interest and activities in the outdoors was encouraged, and like Reps, day-exeats on Sundays were eagerly looked forward to. A big problem for me, regarding Sunday exeats was the system of punishments or “impots” (imposition), as they were known. House prefects could hand out impots to students in their hostel. One impot meant you had to work for one-hour physical labour on Sunday, normally doing something in the hostel grounds like weeding or digging in the garden. Whilst carrying out your impot you were supervised by a duty prefect. It was not possible for me to make it through the week without impots. The more serious crimes, like “bunking out” (leaving the hostel at night, when you’re supposed to be in bed for example) attracted a beating with the cane, and unlike Reps, these beatings were issued on the spot or first thing the next morning, so at least you didn’t have to wait until Sunday. But the less serious offences, like having dirty shoes, or an untidy bed, or talking after the lights were turned out, all attracted impots. Some kids, like myself, were happier to be thrashed as and when we transgressed, rather than receive impots on Sundays. Canings, to me, by this time, were not such a big deal as they had been once upon a time. I had received many, and I was now a seasoned recipient. If a student received three impots, he was beaten two strokes, and still had to labour for one hour; if he received four impots, he was beaten four strokes, and still had to work in the garden for one hour. Five or more impots attracted the maximum – six lashes with the cane.

So this “impot labour” on Sundays seriously curtailed my opportunities for exeats in the first two years at Plumtree. Once pupils reach form three (fifteen years old) they have generally matured somewhat and don’t receive as many impots as they did in forms one and two. We were allowed to keep bicycles at school and this added a whole new dimension to Sunday exeats. We were now able to travel good distances from the school and my favourite destinations were Umhlanga (reed) and Tunduluka (wild plum) dams. Umhlanga dam nestles in amongst granite koppies about seven miles south-south-east of the school, and myself and three friends used to ride there on a rough dirt road as soon as we were done with chapel and inspection on Sundays. If someone had told me that thirty years later I would be making a living in this exact stretch of hills, I would have considered them unstable. At that stage in my life I definitely had no plans to return to anywhere near this place. Umhlanga dam, now sits right inside our hunting area and Graham’s record leopard was taken not more than six miles to the east of it.

Apart from Sunday exeats, I used to sneak off illegally on my own whenever the opportunity arose. I had several catapults hidden in the bush around the edges of the school grounds, and I would collect one of these, hide it in my shirt, and explore the countryside surrounding the school and Plumtree village. I could not fight the drug which was the thrill of seeing new “undiscovered” ground. I walked miles on my own through that unattractive bush around Plumtree, looking for birds nests, eagles nests, dry watercourses, fig trees and koppies. Large leafy fig trees stood prominently out of the thorn scrub, and these were fruit-eating bird magnets, as well as serving as a “find” – another secret place that I imagined was known only to me. Several miles west of Plumtree village was a corridor of land that ran along the border with Botswana. This was known as “no-mans-land” and served as a buffer zone between the two countries to help control illegal border crossings. It should be remembered that Rhodesia was fighting a guerrilla war at this time, and Botswana assisted the enemy by harbouring base camps where the guerrillas could prepare before infiltrating into Rhodesia. So it was probably not a clever thing I was doing, wandering around the bush on my own, way out of school bounds with nobody having any idea where I might be. In my last two years of school at Plumtree, I acquired first an air rifle, and then a .22 rifle which I hid inside the wall of my study, and I used these to hunt rabbits, duiker, doves and francolin. I was never caught with either of these weapons, which was quite surprising; as I had a good distance to go through the school grounds, until I was into the bush. Usually I transported my gun in a cricket bag – folks must have thought that I was serious about my cricket practice! Several years after I had left school I returned to attend the school’s event of the year, the annual sports day. Over a beer one evening I was chatting to Hannes Van der Westhuizen, who had been my favourite teacher and rugby mentor while I was still at the school. “You were a tricky bugger,” he said to me, “several of the teachers tried their damndest to catch you smoking, but never did!” “What made any of you think I was smoking?”

Hannes answered “Well, we saw you, all the time, sneaking off, out of the school grounds by yourself, we knew you were smoking!” How I laughed. I don’t know if Hannes believed me or not when I informed him that I had never ever been a smoker. I was everything else – poacher, bunking out of school grounds, drinking, the list is endless, – but they had been searching my study for cigarettes which weren’t there! I thought this was hilarious. Thank God they never found my guns.

The Rhodesian war escalated, and in my last year at Plumtree we were not allowed to go on exeats to many of the old haunts which had given me so much pleasure in the hills. Some of the students were issued with .303 Parker Hale rifles, in case the school was attacked by guerrillas. Straight away I realised that this meant I could range further afield and try for some kudu cows which I knew frequented a range of hills south of Plumtree town’s sewage dams. Ammunition was a problem, as we had to account for every round that we were issued. As it turned out I never did get an opportunity to poach anything with the school’s rifle, and disappointment at this failure festered in me. One morning, at about 11 o’clock while I was bunking class and sleeping on my bed on the form six balcony, the school was attacked by guerrillas. Or, more accurately some guerrillas fired a couple of dozen rounds into the hostel next to mine, and no one was injured. Apparently the school classrooms turned into a broken beehive with teachers and pupils hiding underneath desks and shouting orders all over the place. I raced downstairs to the housemaster’s office and collected my .303, and then returned to my bed which was a good vantage point, looking from the upstairs balcony over the Grey House gardens. I was more worried about being caught bunking class than being shot, but as it turned out, nobody was any the wiser. Although I did well at that school, both in sports and academically, I feel that it was relieved to see the back of me, and I left at the end of 1978 and joined the army in January 1979.

Graham had his share of misadventure during his years at Plumtree, and once he began smoking it was only a matter of time till he renewed acquaintances with our old friend the cane. He too achieved the academic qualifications he desired, but his school career ended under a bit of a cloud. There was some unpleasantness and misunderstanding involving drink, and Graham and three of his friends were unfortunately brought before the school authorities: I should mention that one of these fellows, on whom this ill luck had fallen, was none other than Trev Landrey, he of Denda Safaris at Matetsi where I spent so much time in the school holidays.

Nowadays, often when I’m driving through the towering granite koppies, or sometimes when I just sit and stare into the wonderful rock formations while I’m waiting for a majestic kudu to show himself, I think back over the years, and remember my early days at Reps and I can still feel the crackling winter mornings when icicles hung from the garden taps, and the hose pipes were frozen solid, white frost covering the front lawns and us small kids rubbing our freezing legs through thin corduroy pants, and dabbing at our pink, running noses. I remember of course the punishments, I remember the homesickness, I remember the big occasions of the swimming gala, the school play, the sports days. I remember being awarded school colours for sports, but the thing I remember most, the thing that is most easy to conjure up in my mind, and recall clearly, is the purple, balancing boulders, and the damp, lichen-smell, of the Matobo hills.