Fascinating Fifties

A .505 Gibbs, built on a Granite Mountain magnum Mauser action.  The action and the .505 Gibbs seem made for each other, probably because they actually were, way back when.

By Terry Wieland

 

In 1972, up on the Tana River in Kenya, I ran into a white hunter by the name of David Thompson.  David was a thin little guy, going grey as might be expected of someone who made a living chasing mean stuff in the thornbush.  He was armed with a squat, heavy-looking bolt action rifle, devoid of bluing but also devoid of rust.  Obviously, a rifle that had been around, but was well cared for.

 

Naturally, I asked about it.  A .505 Gibbs, he told me.  Had it for years, he said, and it looked it.  The magnum Mauser action appeared to have seen service at Dunkirk, if not Stalingrad, and who knows what its history was.  In those days, anything hailing from Germany (including much of the French Foreign Legion) were a little cagey about discussing their past.

 

David handed me his rifle, and immediately I understood why Ernest Hemingway’s fictional hunter, Robert Wilson, described his own .505 Gibbs as “this damned cannon.”  It was a cannon, indeed.

 

Largely due to Hemingway, the .505 Gibbs enjoys a reputation that far outstrips its actual use in the field, or the number that were even built in its first 80 years.  Most estimates place the number of original .505s at no more than a hundred.  Comparable figures hold for the equally fearsome .500 Jeffery and .600 Nitro Express.

 

The .505 was introduced by George Gibbs in 1911, using a completely original case.  The .500 Jeffery, on the other hand, was an English rendering of the 12.5x70mm Schuler, which came along in the 1920s, designed specifically to function in a standard Mauser 98 military action.  On paper, the .500 Jeffery shades the .505 ballistically, and, until the .460 Weatherby arrived, was touted as the most powerful magazine-rifle cartridge in existence.

A .505 Gibbs with a proper 22-inch barrel, this one a custom Granite Mountain.  For reasons that escape me, it has become fashionable to fit .505 Gibbs rifles with 26-inch barrels.  This is totally unnecessary, ballistically, and makes the rifle very unwieldy.

That claim probably accounts for the fascination with it by American big-bore enthusiasts ever since the first edition of Cartridges of the World appeared in 1965.  For the record, the Jeffery (allegedly) uses a 535-grain bullet at 2,400 fps (6,800 ft.lbs.), while the .505 fires a 525-grain bullet (2,300 fps, 6,180 ft.lbs.)  Ten grains of bullet weight and 100 fps account for an additional 1,820 ft.lbs., which shows how velocity can skew perceived power.

 

Without getting into all the technical details, I personally believe the .505 is a much superior cartridge, simply because it is big and roomy, has a stout rim for extraction (the .500 Jeffery rim is rebated), has a neck twice as long to firmly hold big bullets under substantial recoil, and operates at lower pressures — always a big plus in hot climates, hunting dangerous game.

 

Obviously, most American enthusiasts do not agree.  After Norma introduced its African PH line a decade ago, .500 Jeffery outsold .505 Gibbs by a reported ratio of six to one.  The comparative ballistics for Norma ammunition are:  .500 Jeffery, 570-gr., 2,200 fps, 6,127 ft.lbs.; .505 Gibbs, 600-gr., 2,100 fps, 5,877 ft.lbs.

 

The Czech company, CZ, offers its big bolt action in both .500 Jeffery and .505 Gibbs, and since you are gaining nothing in action size or weight by going with the .500 Jeffery, I fail to see why anyone would take that over the .505, unless they are unduly impressed by paper ballistics.  In terms of deadliness, there is nothing to choose between them (assuming they deliver the claimed performance) but much to be said for the .505 in terms of a dependable, usable hunting rifle.

 

And what can you hunt with them?  In reality, they are elephant cartridges with some application for Cape buffalo under adverse circumstances.  For most of us, they are simply too much gun for everyday use hunting anything.  Having said that, some readers are sure to proclaim that it’s sure not too much gun for them.  That attitude goes a long way to accounting for the .500 Jeffery’s popularity.

The .505 Gibbs (left) is larger than the .500 Jeffery, which will fit (just!) into a standard military Mauser 98 action.  To make it fit, however, it has a rebated rim which can cause both feeding and extraction difficulties, and a neck that is really too short to grip a bullet under fearsome recoil.  On paper, however, the Jeffery shaded the Gibbs, ballistically.

Among The Masai

By Terry Wieland

 

Many and curious are the tales about the Masai that permeate the hunting literature of East Africa.  The Masai are, at one and the same time, the most recognizable of all African tribes, yet — by most outsiders — the least understood.

 

For my money, they are the most intriguing, the most contradictory in some ways, and the hardest to pigeon-hole.  If I were an anthropologist looking for an African tribe to study, I would choose the Masai.  And if I were in a tight spot and needed a good friend, I would also choose a Masai.

 

Hunting writers tend to dislike the Masai, partly because when the Masai move into an area with their cattle, the wild game moves out.  More than that, in the old days at least, they resisted any attempt to “civilize” them (all to the good, in my opinion) but also refused to become trackers, gun bearers, and general employees of the safari companies.  This may have been arrogance, or it may have been simple good sense.  In this regard, the Masai are like cats:  They believe that being a Masai is about as high as one can go, so why would any Masai change?  As a race, they don’t take orders well.  But then, neither do I.

 

After Tanganyika became independent in 1962, with the socialist-utopian-academic Julius Nyerere as president, one of his early decrees to modernize the country was a complete ban on the Masai being Masai.  He outlawed their distinctive dress (typically a red or red-plaid cloak) and prohibited the carrying of spears and short swords.  To Nyerere, the instantly recognizable Masai were, in fact, a symbol of African tribal backwardness.  After a few years, he reckoned, they would forget these outward symbols of Masai culture, wear pants, drink Fanta, and vote socialist.

 

Dr. Nyerere’s flirtation with African socialist paradise dragged on drearily until he shambled off into the sunset, to be replaced in the early 1990s by a new, capitalist government intent on emulating the states of eastern Europe that had discarded communism at the first opportunity.  Currency controls disappeared, new businesses sprang up.  Almost as an afterthought, restrictions on Masai customs were lifted.  Overnight, red cloaks blossomed like flame trees, with grinning Masai morani sporting spears, swords (simis), and similar weapons of intimate destruction.  Where they’d been hidden through all the years of prohibition, no one seemed to know.  It was not unlike the seeds of Czech or Polish nationalism, when you think about it.

The Masai dwell in the area of the Kenya-Tanzania border that includes Mount Kilimanjaro, Masai Mara, the Serengeti, and the Great Rift Valley.  Although current spelling is usually Maasai, with two ‘a’s, my friend Lekina, a Masai tracker, spells it with one ‘a’ and therefore so do I.  They are a semi-nomadic tribe for whom cattle are the center of life.

 

In 1993, hunting on Mount Longido, I had a glimpse of the true Masai character.  Longido, like Kilimanjaro, is a huge, extinct volcano in the Rift Valley.  We climbed up into the crater, where a few Masai families live in magnificent seclusion, and beyond that up into the rain forest of the high rim, there to hunt old, recalcitrant Cape buffalo, living out their brooding and solitary old age.

 

We were up the mountain for two days, then returned to our base camp.  The local Masai headman came to visit, and reported that three transient lions had killed one of the Masai cows. Two of his men were guarding the carcass, and he asked if we could take our truck and bring in what remained.  We agreed, and I was elected to ride shotgun up in the back, armed with a .458 Winchester.  It was already dark as we wended our way through the thornbush, with a Masai guide tapping left or right on the windshield.  It was a dark night — dark as only a night in Africa, complete with lions, can be.

 

As we reached a little clearing, our sweeping headlights caught the eyes of three lions in the bush, waiting and watching, and two young Masai tending a small fire.  We wrestled the carcass into the back, the Masai climbed in, and we left the lions to their hungry disappointment.  About halfway back, we came upon a young Masai herd boy, nine or ten years old, alone in the darkness with three donkeys, on his way to pick up the dead cow in the event that we, like so many mzungus, failed to keep our promise.  The sight of him there alone, armed with only a miniature spear, made me feel a little foolish with my .458.

 

These, I realized, were the real Masai — not the posers for tourist cameras, the beggars at border crossings, the spivs from the streets of Arusha.  Our young friend politely declined our offer of a ride.  He had to take the donkeys home.  They were his responsibility.

 

Twenty years later, I found myself in a small gathering that included one of my gun-writing acquaintances, a man who has been to Africa a few times, but never stayed long.  All he has seen — or cared to see, for that matter — was airports and safari camps.  Someone asked him about his most recent visit, and he took great redneck pleasure in recounting an anecdote about some Masai who, having some money, spent it on (of all the silly things!) a cell phone.

 

On the surface, this may seem of unlikely value.  But when you consider that Masai settlements are widespread, in inhospitable country, and that most communication is on foot, a scattering of cell phones is the best time-saving device yet created.  In fact, eminently sensible.  Of course, you have to know something about the Masai and their ways to appreciate this, but all Layne ever saw through his bred-in South Carolina bias were the flies and the cow dung.

 

This is where the contradictions come in.  In 2004, I was hunting Cape buffalo near Mount Burko.  Not needing the meat, we gave one bull to the local Masai.  In gratitude, the headman invited me to visit his establishment, where I met his senior wife and was invited — a great honor — to enter her house.  It was dark and cool, scrupulously clean and neat, and the lady was understandably proud of it.

 

Beside a nearby mud hut, there was parked a shiny Mercedes.  I asked who owned it.  A neighbor, I was told.  He had two sons.  One he was raising as a traditional Masai; the other worked in Arusha, having gone to school and qualified as an accountant.  Their father shrewdly deduced that having a foot in both camps would be a good idea.  My contemptuous South Carolina acquaintance, I should add, does not and never has owned a Mercedes-Benz, although I do believe he has a cell phone.

 

On that same trip, I met my Masai friend Lekina, a tracker who absolutely loves carrying and shooting double rifles.  He volunteered to carry my .500 Nitro Express, and wore it like a badge.  When we later spent an afternoon using up the spare ammunition, he was like a kid at a carnival.

 

Two years later, hunting with him again, he accorded me the honor of inviting me home to meet his two wives, one of whom had prepared some of the traditional Masai curdled-milk for me.  This strange concoction is mentioned in virtually every description of Masai life, and is usually described as a buttermilk-like beverage made from milk, wood ash, and cow’s urine.  The Masai men carry it with them in the long gourds that are as much part of their uniform as their spear.

 

Sitting in Lekina’s neat mud hut with its thatched roof, I remembered how I had discovered, on my first poverty-stricken trip to Africa in 1971, how mud and grass huts are far more sensible for the African climate than any conventional European house.  And yet, these are always mentioned to show how primitive African people are.  In reality, they are very comfortable.

 

As for the Masai buttermilk (for lack of a better term) it has a taste all its own, but not an unpleasant one.  I’m not sure I’d want to live on it, but if it would give me Lekina’s physique and stamina, I’d eat nothing else.

Classic and Contemporary African Hunting Literature

Hunting

On Safari in East and Southern Africa

Aubrey Wynne-Jones (Macmillan South Africa Ltd., 1980, 180 pages)
Reviewed by Ken Bailey

 

 

Like many others, early on I read the books of Capstick, Ruark and Hunter, dreaming of the day I could live out my own African hunting adventure. As that dream neared reality, I went looking for books that were less adventure-oriented and more instructive. It was 1986, and where I lived, in Edmonton, Alberta, with no internet and few resources available, I stumbled across this title and had my local bookstore bring in a copy. The price tag is still on it, $41.95, a princely sum for a book in those days. But Wynne-Jones’ book provided me with useful advice as I planned my safari, and much of it still holds up today.

 

The first section provides a ton of practical information; some is targeted to the visiting hunter, while other sections pertain more to the DIY hunter. The latter includes recommendations for camp gear, set-up and location, food and beverage suggestions, tracking tips, and advice on emergency and game extraction equipment to carry in your vehicle. Of course, these activities are largely handled by PHs and their teams for the vast majority of us today; DIY is restricted to local residents as far as I know.

 

The book’s section on rifle, cartridge and optics recommendations for the various species has been duplicated and bested in any number of books dedicated to these topics, before and since. Some of what’s here, particularly the optics section, is outdated, and several of today’s popular cartridges hadn’t been developed when this book was written. Still, the suggestions provided are meaningful and will resonate with many hunters, especially those who still prefer a .270 Win. to one of the many new 6.5s or .277s on the market.

 

There’s a short section on bullet placement that focusses on the big five, a brief chapter on bird hunting, and a detailed listing of Rowland Ward’s minimum trophy standards for nearly every imaginable species of game, along with detailed instructions, complete with accurate sketches, as to how each species is to be measured. As an Appendix to the book, there’s also detailed instructions and minimum scores for the SCI scoring method—my book is the 2nd edition, printed in 1982; I’m not certain if the first edition includes the SCI information or whether it was added as an Appendix in subsequent printings only.

 

The largest section of this book dedicates a couple pages or more to every popular, and some not so popular, game species. Each is broken down into subsections—species identification (including height, weight, color, horn description, etc.), preferred habitat and basic behaviour, the regions where the best trophies have been taken (including maps), and a short section revealing some basic hunting tips. Each species page is also beautifully illustrated by South African artist André de Villiers. Interestingly, this section in my copy of the book still has my pencil notations on several pages, remnants from me attempting to narrow down my “want and can afford” list as I planned my first safari.

 

It’s fair to say that there have been several books published that offer advice for planning your safari that are more complete or more up-to-date than this one, including significantly greater information on the landscapes, hunting conditions and game animals you can expect to encounter—Mellon’s African Hunter and African Hunter II edited by Boddington and Flack immediately come to mind. Still, Wynne-Jones’ Hunting—On Safari in East and Southern Africa is an eminently readable book that is well-thought out and contains an immense amount of information that’s as accurate and useful today as it was when it was written.

Gin-Trapped Buffalo Leads to the Fall of a Zimbabwean Icon

The letter below was copied to me by an Alaskan hunter.

 

What made the letter particularly meaningful is that just this week something terrible happened. When you read the letter below, you will see a reference to gin traps and how terrible they are. And the link you may ask?  It was just this week that a game-farming family inadvertently felt the tragic impact of such a poacher’s gin trap.

 

A tremendous man, from all reports, someone devoted to uplifting communities and wildlife, was killed by a buffalo. The buffalo had fallen victim to one of the impoverished rural poachers’ gin traps. Wounded, suffering, and needing to be put out of its misery, the belligerent beast took out its anger and pain on the very person on a mission to help end its suffering. Digby Bristow was the target of the buffalo’s vengeance as it pummeled him – his wife Vanessa’s words in her heartfelt recount of what happened that fateful day just before Christmas.

 

While the taking of a life, the killing of an animal is hard to understand, and some even display delight in the act, and is what jars with the public in general, it is only a component of the hunt itself. The letter below is a long read, so just keep scrolling if you are busy.

 

Letter to UK Parliament regarding the Ban the Import of African Animals

Dear MP Christopher Chope,

 

After reading the article by Dr. John Ledger in the latest issue of “African Hunting Gazette” I was greatly disturbed to see a Bill by the UK Parliament to Ban the Import of African Animals.

 

It is with great respect to you after reading bios about you from different sources that you are a champion against such a Bill and that you have in the past been a champion against the many “New Age Ideas” that attempt to alter and destroy our natural world.

 

There have been times as a hunter that I have looked upon an animal that I have killed and wonder how I could take the life of such a beautiful creature. But I believe mankind should be overseers of our natural heritage, including the environment of our planet, the husbandry of our ecosystem, and the common-sense use of fossil fuels, utilized for man’s benefit. Until there is a better energy source, fossil fuel should still be our best choice for it is still in great supply!

 

The people of Africa are beneficiaries of those that come to hunt on their soil. The dollars that come to them by way of travel, licenses, permits, taxes, game meat, and trophy fees each help to educate local communities about the natural fauna and flora, and the importance of habitat in which they live within.

Normally these people in rural villages are very poor that have small gardens that will supply them with the food that will carry them through each day and each season. An elephant or herds of antelope that come to feed on their gardens, become an enemy that must be dealt with. Some may be shot with crude weapons, caught in gin traps, or taken with snares. Without education, their value as a renewable game species is unknown to them.

 

When African Countries open blocks to hunters, the benefits to the rural people are tremendous. The funds that are immediately procured become sources of income for game departments that fund species surveys, game counts, boreholes for healthy drinking water in the villages where many have died from disease-ridden water supplies. Those in these villages become part of poaching patrols.  Money is used to build schools that will educate their children about the animals that live around them.

 

A new world that suddenly opens to them, ideas become the creation of dreams to becoming doctors, seeing a world that was never envisioned.

 

Those people that had their gardens raided, will begin to see meat being delivered to their villages, and with this new resource of protein that they can depend on, begin to take an interest in the way animals will be harvested that will not only supply food for their families, but will be a dependable and renewable resource for them in the future.

 

If this Bill to Ban the Import of African Animals is passed, it will destroy the wildlife species like never before. Who will fund the needy when wildlife no longer has a spoken voice, from those that benefited the most?

 

Many of the Wildlife Parks in Africa have been saved from complete habitat destruction by those that come from abroad – to hunt. The hunting blocks, of course, are outside of these parks, but as habitat decreases many species leave to forage where habitat is plentiful. Because Animal Rights organizations will not allow the animals in these parks to be culled, the destruction of these guarded habitats becomes useless to provide life to the species living within them.

 

Without wise management of our natural world that is provided for now by hunters’ dollars and certainly not by those that cry foul yet offer nothing to the poor African people that ought to benefit, the environment and its wildlife will suffer.

 

There are those that come to my home and see animals I have hunted in Africa and elsewhere. There are some that shake their heads, for they do not understand. But when I can explain about the coloration of animal skins, the unique shape of eyes, lips, and horns, some begin to understand from a fresh perspective.

I tell them about a person with a strange name they have never heard before, our tracker who we followed. I tell them about the bent stick he used to point to a hoof-print barely visible in dry and dusty ground among dozens of others, and as I recall my memories I am transported back to that place where warm winds blow and the sweet soft calls from doves are carried in those warm currents of air. A place where the joy I felt was indescribable, where calming peace captivated me in a place like no other.

 

I will recall how wonderfully surprised I was when this man pointed to the direction the animal had suddenly turned, for there was nothing to show in the sand or grass that I could see. But he smiled and nodded.

 

These wonderful trackers became masters of these skills when they were but young boys when they took charge of the village cattle into fields, through jungle and down into river bottoms among ferocious predators, when the rainy season came, with flashes of lightening from thunderstorms of black clouds and racing wind and pounding rain.

I sadly recall that some of these great men I hunted with died at a young age because of HIV/AIDs and other diseases that could not be warded off because their communities were remote and poor. There were no doctors, so none came.

 

Like the animals that have such coloration and form, the indigenous African people are different in color and cultures from our own but are beautiful and unique. They have seen what hunters’ dollars have brought into their lives, and they have learned the importance these game animals now have, and what has been added to their lives and their families that now have schools and health clinics. They have honor. They have very little, but they love their families, as we do ours.

 

They know if they let the game animals propagate, that the oldest males will be harvested, the resource will continue, and the meat and trophy fees will make their villages prosper.

 

We proclaim that our world today is superior to that of the past, but still the horn of the rhino and the tusk of the elephants have no regulated legal trade. Yet poaching has continued, with black markets stealing the lives of these animals, a practice that will continue again and again until those animals are just pictures in a book.

 

There will be no one to count the missing dead, for the game departments will close without funding to maintain the resource.

 

Some nations stopped hunting and brought in people with cameras. But photo safaris travel the same track day after day, giving wild animals no peace to live as people seek their pictures relentlessly, day after day.

 

The habitat loss becomes tremendous with roads and bridges. Non-hunters pay no trophy fees that would fund game departments or poaching patrols. Photo Safaris supply no protein to the villagers who have lost their gardens to animals that no longer are managed or cared for. They receive no funding. They receive no meat.

 

There are those that claim that Kenya is the model African country because it no longer allows organized hunting. But when you talk to those rural people that lived there before 1977, they will tell you a different story.

 

This planet is ours, we can preserve it or let it fall into destruction. True hunters, those that seek our world’s wild places, hunt not just to kill or take away, but come to preserve those things that should be most precious to each of us.

 

How wonderful if we could each hand over to those that come after we have gone, this most incredible natural world gifted to us.

 

Hunters’ dollars fund wildlife!

 

My Best Regards,

Norman Thomas

Alaska

 

 

Classic and Contemporary African Hunting Literature

Rhino War

Major General (Ret.) Johan Jooste with Tony Park (Ingwe Publishing, 2022, 268 pages)
Reviewed by Ken Bailey

  

 

Rhino War is a fascinating read describing the staggering level and sheer brutality of rhino poaching in South Africa’s Kruger National Park, and one man’s Herculean efforts to stem the losses.

 

In 2012, Johan Jooste, a retired South African general, was hired to lead Kruger’s anti-poaching efforts. He was selected for this role in large measure because of his military experiences, as South African National Parks (SANP), desperate to reduce the overwhelming rhino losses, wanted to introduce a paramilitary-like approach to combatting poaching. Jooste describes in great detail the unanticipated challenges he faced, from opposition within some ranks of the SANP system and a reluctance to change by many of the park rangers, to chronic underfunding, and a largely unsympathetic government in Mozambique, from where the vast majority of poachers originated.

 

Co-written by Tony Park, an established Australian writer of thriller novels and non-fiction biographies, the crisp and clean writing style encourages the reader to continue turning the page – there’s no fluff here.

 

Jooste quickly discovers that protecting Kruger’s rhinos isn’t merely a local operational issue, it’s heavily influenced by national and international politics, and success requires that he become a rhino ambassador, mingling with government officials, royalty, the media and wealthy patrons as he strives to garner the support and funding required to fulfill his vision and, ultimately, save the last great rhino herd on earth.

 

Jooste is clearly a man of many talents. Not only does he prove to be effective in recruiting support at the highest levels, he also shows himself to be a capable boots-on-the-ground leader, describing in fascinating detail many of the thrilling and dangerous anti-poaching operations he took part in, side by side with the unheralded rangers who risked their lives on a daily basis. And make no mistake, as Rhino War teaches us, anti-poaching is, often times, literally a kill or be killed exercise, reflective of the huge money in the rhino horn trade coupled with far too many poor and desperate people willing to do anything to feed their families.

 

Overcoming myriad hurdles along the way, after several years Jooste is not only able to put the brakes on what had been a growing problem, but with the help of technology, generous private funding, a revitalized and recognized ranger team, and the true grit of a military man unwilling to fail, he ultimately succeeds in reversing the tide.

 

Rhino War will interest anybody with a passion for Africa’s great wildlife. It provides an insider’s look at the insidious challenges of poaching, how vast an impact poaching can have on both a local and regional scale, and how significant the personal and financial resource requirements are to conserve our threatened wildlife for future generations.

Classic and Contemporary African Hunting Literature

Wato

Brian Watson ( 2019, 321 pages)
Reviewed by Ken Bailey

  

Brian Watson’s Wato is purely and simply an enjoyable read. I suspect that’s in part because he’s one of us. Like many of us he took a fancy to guns, shooting and hunting as a child, and he grew up in Australia reading about hunting in Africa and dreaming that one day he, too, could make the pilgrimage. He’s been a working man his whole adult life and had to save his shekels to make those dreams a reality—again, just like most of us.

 

Throughout the book, Wato, as he’s affectionately called by his friends and associates, demonstrates remarkable recall of his many safaris to Africa, in addition to a handful of hunts in other parts of the world. Each chapter describes an individual safari experience or a specific animal he has hunted. Over time he’s taken most of the key species in southern Africa, including the big five, though elephant hunting is clearly his passion and is the subject of several of the chapters. He’s also a bit of a gun nut, and if you enjoy reading about firearms, Wato won’t leave you disappointed. He even serves up a little meat for the wingshooting and angling fraternities.

 

What I really found compelling is that Watson has landed on just the right amount of detail in describing his various adventures. That’s a fine line to walk—too much detail and a reader gets bored before the climactic scene; too little and the stage isn’t set properly, we can’t imagine we’re walking side by side with him. Wato tiptoes along that line perfectly.

 

Watson is clearly a naturalist and conservationist at heart, and his appreciation for wild places and the flora and fauna they support, shines through; it’s evident throughout the book that it’s all about the experience for Watson, he’s not stepping off the plane with a tape measure in hand.

 

For those seeking a little eye candy, Wato is illustrated with 15 pages of colour photographs showing many of the people, places and hunts he describes in his stories.

 

If I have one beef with Wato, it’s that there’s too much passive, rather than active, voice. I find that a little distracting and cumbersome, although it’s not all that unusual in self-published books; a thorough editing would have cleaned that up.

 

Notwithstanding that little nitpick, I encourage everyone who appreciates contemporary African literature to pick up this book. It’s all very relatable and would be a relaxing and enjoyable way to spend those long air hours on the way to your next safari.

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