By Sidney Lovell-Parker

August, 2024

The year was 2004, and I was finalizing the analysis for a potential offshore oil discovery between Portugal and Spain for the Italian company I worked for when my secretary interrupted saying that my friend Mike (Marco Antônio Moura de Castro) had already called three times wanting to speak to me. I returned the call curious and wondering what could be so urgent. Mike answered my call promptly, greeting me with the hearty laugh he had.

“Mr. Parker” and another laugh. I knew that the call was not to give me anything and then came the request, “I need a big favor from you………”

At the time, Mike was the president of the Safari Club International – Chapter Brazil, a position he was proud of. He had hunted with me about four times, twice in Zimbabwe, once in Bolivia and once in Mozambique. He was a good friend and an excellent travel companion. Unfortunately, he passed away two years ago. Mike was a hunter and collector. As president of the SCI, he had contact with hunters from many places and was involved in the social aspect, an activity he loved.

“Mr. Parker, I have a German/Canadian friend of mine, a member of the SCI, who is in Rio for just two days and would really like to meet you. He saw your photo with a Leopard in the SCI magazine and would like to know what your experience was like.”

If there is one thing I don’t like to do, it is socializing, but I couldn’t refuse a request from my friend. He asked if he could share my contact information and I said yes. An hour later my cell phone rang and it was the German/Canadian. “Sidney Parker, I’m Günter Strangemann and Mike gave me your contact information.” We arranged to have lunch the next day.

The next day, a Friday, I called Günter and we arranged to have lunch at a steakhouse called Esplanada Grill, which was very convenient for me since it was two blocks from my office in Ipanema. We agreed to meet at the restaurant at 3:00 p.m. The lunch time seemed strange to Günther because it was so late, and he asked me twice during the call to confirm the time.

In Rio, it was common on Fridays that business people work until mid afternoon and then go out for lunch and relax, meeting up with acquaintances (friends or not). I arrived about ten minutes early, told the doorman that my guest was coming, and got a table near the entrance in a quieter place so we could talk.

At 3:00 p.m. sharp, a tall, burly man with red cheeks entered the restaurant, looking like a big bear. I looked straight at him and said, “Welcome to Rio, Günter. ”Mr. Parker I presume”, he replied, plagiarizing the famous journalist Henry Morton Stanley.

He was in Argentina hunting red deer and saw an article in a magazine that featured one of the leopards I had hunted. When he arrived in Rio, he contacted, Mike, asking for information on how to contact me. I then asked how long he had known Mike, and he replied that he had not actually met him personally and that he had only spoken to him on the phone when he asked for help in locating me. I burst out laughing, and Günther did not understand why I was laughing. We had been sitting for two hours eating an excellent sliced picanha. Günther was telling his stories and I was listening most of the time. Did I really understand that the reason for our meeting was for me to share my experience of hunting two giant leopards? After a few caipirinhas I think neither of us knew.

I checked my watch and it was almost seven o’clock. We had been sitting there talking for almost four hours. I asked for the bill and we left. Günther was staying at the Meridian Hotel at the beginning of Copacabana and I offered to drive him. On the way back he told me that he had not planned to go through Rio after his hunting trip in Argentina; it was an impulse decision after seeing my Leopard in the magazine. He then bought a ticket from Buenos Aires, Rio de Janeiro and then São Paulo, where he would catch the flight back to Canada. Since he was hunting in Argentina, he was carrying his rifle with him. Upon arriving at Galeão airport in Rio de Janeiro, the rifle was seized by the federal police. After much explanation, the tax officer told Günther that the rifle would be kept in custody at the Federal Revenue Service and that when he left the country, he could check the rifle on the flight to Canada.

Something told me that things would not be that easy. I then asked my new friend to show me the tickets, which he promptly did. Looking at the tickets, I realized what I had feared. One ticket was Buenos Aires – São Paulo – Toronto. The other one purchased in Argentina was Buenos – Rio and another one was Rio – Guarulhos (São Paulo). This meant that he could not ship his rifle directly from Rio to Toronto. In other words, he had to enter the country with a rifle and without a license to do so and take a domestic flight Rio – São Paulo and then board an international flight to Toronto.

I looked at him and said, “Günter, we have a problem.” Your flight to São Paulo tomorrow is at 10:30, but I will stop by the hotel to pick you up at 5:00. I explained the situation to Günther and left. That day at 5:00 in the morning, I picked Günther up at the hotel and we headed to the airport. On the way, he asked me if I could plan to take him hunting a leopard. I said yes, next year, 2005. After much conversation, I managed to resolve the situation with the rifle and my new friend boarded the plane back to Canada.

Three weeks later after meeting Günter, I called Wayne Grant to arrange and book the hunt. It was late November 2004. Wayne is a good friend of mine. He was born in Bulawayo, Southern Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe, in 1960. He began hunting professionally in 1980 and set up his own operation in 1985. We met in the early 1990s and have hunted together several times in Zimbabwe, Tanzania and Mozambique and have become good friends. He is without doubt the best PH I know and I know several. He is the author of two excellent books, “Into The Thorns” (on Leopard) and “Drums of The Morning” (Lion). Both books describe some of our hunts.

It was late November 2004. I explained the whole meeting with Günter and said that I would really like to take him hunting a leopard. Wayne said that I had already scheduled a client to hunt a leopard with me at the end of May 2005 and asked me if I intended to return to Africa twice that year or extend my stay to do the second hunt. I replied that my idea was to do both hunts in the same period. He would find another experienced PH to guide Lamberto (the Brazilian hunter) and he and I would do Günther’s hunt. Wayne cautioned, “Sid, you know very well that having two clients in the same area with the same objective, leopard, is not ideal”.

Of course I knew, but the area that Wayne had control over was quite large and with many animals and also cattle. Leopards are territorial animals and the size of their territory is proportional to the amount of food available. The more prey you have, the smaller your territory will be. Wayne obviously knew that. “Okay,” he said, “I don’t have any quotas left at the moment, but if there’s a cancellation, the spot is yours. I’ll keep you posted.”

In early 2005, Günther would call me from time to time to check if everything was okay or sometimes just to chat. My German friend did not communicate by e-mail. The few times I sent him a written message I never received a reply. In one of these calls, in March, he told me that he would really like to bring a friend and wanted to know if it was possible. I asked if it would be just as an observer or if he intended to hunt as well. Before getting a reply, I said that another leopard would not be possible but that he could hunt plains game. I had already arranged a leopard hunt with Lamberto for the same period, in the same region and staying at the same camp. This did not please Wayne at all, and I confess that it did not please me either.

I knew the region of our Safari well. I had already been there a few times and it was where I hunted the two large Leopards. The area is in the western Matabeleland. The Matobo Hills Range is about 120 km long and about 60 km wide. It stretches east—-west. From the Bulawayo to Beitbridge road in the east to the Botswana border in the west. The Hills run in an east west line only about 30 km south of Zimbabwe’s second largest city Bulawayo. Rhodesia’s founder Cecil John Rhodes is buried there at a place called “World´s View”.

Our Safari was about 70 km west of Bulawayo in the western part of the Matobo Hills Range. The area we were hunting was about 200 000 acres in extent.

There are two camps in the area. The northern camp on the mountain, which belongs to a good friend of Wayne´s and also of mine – Graham Robertson. This camp is very beautiful and comfortable. It has a spectacular view of the region. In the dining room there is a picture frame with photographs of the best and biggest leopards hunted in the region. My two are in that “Hall of Fame”.

I have great memories of all the times I stayed there. This time we were going to stay at the southern camp. This was on a property which belonged to a local rancher named Alvord Mabena. It was also very comfortable but did not have the view or the charm of the mountain camp.

Wayne used to get a quota of about ten leopards on his areas of 200 000 acres plus about 50 000 acres of nearby adjoining ranchland. The topography is primarily granite koppies interspersed with maponi woodland, acacia thorn savanna and mangwe bushveld. Because of the granite hills which provide shelter for many small animals like rats, mice, hyraxes, lizards, birds, etc, there is a good population of snakes such as cobras, black mambas and puff adders.

These small animals in the koppies as well as klipspringers, duikers, bushpigs, baboons, monkeys, red rock hares, guineafowl, and francolins all who live in and around the koppies, are all prey for the leopards.

The leopards in this region have no problem with food. It is like having a good supply of live food in the pantry at home. And if they want something bigger and perhaps juicier, they can just hunt around the koppies for a Kudu, Impala or a young cow from some farmer.

This is certainly one of the reasons this region produces large leopards. Because of the human presence, the leopards in this region have developed nocturnal habits. Leopards do not mind the presence of humans but have developed habits to avoid them. They are extremely smart and, why not say, “educated” to the activities of humans.

And the day arrived. Everything was ready and well organized. It was May 25, 2005. Lamberto and I were going to fly from São Paulo to Johannesburg and Günther and John from Atlanta to Johannesburg. The difference in arrival times between the flights was approximately 55 minutes. Our meeting point would be at the Johannesburg airport at the registration and entry permit counter for the rifles. I had already hired an agent to take care of all the paperwork and he would meet me there with all the documentation ready.

Our connection from Johannesburg to Bulawayo was tight and if we missed the flight we would have to sleep in Johannesburg and fly the next day. I wanted to do everything I could to avoid that. With the permits for the rifles in hand, we picked up our luggage and went to check in for our destination, Bulawayo.

When I go on safari, I travel light. Three pairs of shorts, one pair of longs for special occasions, five shirts, three T-shirts, three pairs of socks, my Clark desert boots, one pair of sneakers, one light jacket and one for cold nights, two caps and underwear. That’s all I need. When you go on safari, you have daily laundry service at the camp.

When I saw John’s luggage, I almost fell over. John was carrying his rifle in a suitable, normal box, and another bag in the shape of a tube, approximately 1.5 meters high and about 0,60 meters in diameter. Very similar to those bags that you see in movies soldiers carrying on their backs to embark on a battle. When the bag was weighed, it came to 35 kg, that is, well above the permitted amount.

John, embarrassed, offered to pay the amount for the excess weight, but the employee explained that it was not a question of paying, but that it was not permitted because it exceeded the maximum weight that the porters could carry. That said, I asked for the key to what we later named the “grocery store” and started emptying it and distributing the contents between Lamberto, Günther and I. I almost lost my cool with what happened and we almost missed the flight.

Once on board the flight to Bulawayo I relaxed. Everything went well despite the small setback with John’s overweight luggage. As the safari progressed the contents of this bag proved to be   this proved to be a godsend. We landed and Wayne was waiting for us along with Bee, his main tracker at the time. We then headed straight to camp.

Our camp consisted of four en suite bungalows. The first and main one was Günther’s, then mine, separated by the fireplace. Further to the right and ahead was the dining room. Immediately after that were two en suite chalets where Lamberto and John were accommodated. Behind that were the PH’s accommodations and to the rear were the rest of the staff.

The next day Wayne and I met early to plan the day. I was responsible for taking the three of them to test the rifles. There is talk that this is necessary to check that the scope has not become unadjusted during the trip. This story is a not the only reason.  In reality, the aim is to check how well each person shoots and to assess Handling speed and accuracy. A scope that is correctly positioned and well secured with screw glue will not move unless there is a major disaster, and then the concern should be different.

I focused on helping Lamberto and with his second shot I saw that something was very wrong. He hadn’t even hit the target bench. Looking from above I could see from the small scratches on the scope’s tube that it was moving with each shot. I tried to explain to him but he didn’t want to listen and continued to waste ammunition. It was fine if that was what he wanted as long as he didn’t put anyone at risk in the hunt.

I then turned to John. He was not only a very good shot, but also a very fast one. He had, in my opinion, the minimum requirements needed to hunt any of the big five when it came to shooting.

Now I wanted to focus on my friend. Günther had a beautiful rifle, a Mannlicher caliber 9.3×64 Brenneke with a Zeiss scope. A beautiful set. We then began to practice and I soon realized that my friend was shooting reasonably well but without consistency. Sometimes the shots were a little high on the left and then a little low on the right. This was not at all good for hunting a Leopard. I decided, with Günther’s permission, to test the rifle since the results of the shots were not consistent. I fired two shots one above the other, both in the center. Now I decided to test if he would be able to shoot once the target was visible. The result, a disaster for a Leopard hunt at night.

There are a few ways to hunt a Leopard, most of which depend on the region and the animal’s habits in a given region. Those interested can read more about this in detail in my friend Wayne Grant’s book, “Into the Torns.” The technique we would use to hunt in this region was to bring the Leopard to us. In other words, by placing bait.

On this second night at camp, John revealed to us why his “Tube Bag” was so heavy. A good part of the bag was taken up by various types of cheese, pâtés, salamis, wines, cognacs and a variety of malts – some very welcome, unexpected treats.

On the third day Wayne and I talked before the others arrived for breakfast. We decided to make two groups. A professional hunter Bruce Cronjé would take care of Lamberto and John. The two of us would concentrate on Günther.

It would take a lot of work to get the German ready. Wayne then drew a life-size Leopard on a set of cardboards that we pieced together. We then chose a tree behind the camp and hung a real Impala as bait. Each time we tried we would place the Leopard in a different position. About thirty or forty yards away we made a curtain of blankets. Günther would be behind the curtain without seeing the scene in front of him. Günther would be shooting from a standing position with his rifle well supported on a tripod. Each time we changed the Leopard’s position for the next one. I would run the curtain and time the shot, Wayne change the position of the cardboard Leopard.

Everything worked perfectly except the main thing. A time of less than 2 seconds and an accuracy of less than 1 inches. We did this a dozen times until I told him to stop because I saw that the result was getting worse, probably due to the stress it was causing Günther. We stopped everything and I went straight to Günther and congratulated him: “My friend, you are going to get your Leopard. Go rest and tomorrow we will continue to place baits”. I looked at Wayne and he was looking at the sky. Praying? No! My friend is a convinced atheist.

The next day we left early. Wayne was driving, I was sitting next to him, Günther and Bee were in the back seat, and two other helpers were in the back. My German friend was beaming, probably because of his results from the previous day. He was laughing and telling his stories non-stop. I laughed sometimes but Wayne was serious, and every now and then he looked up at Günther and looked at me, shaking his head. He didn’t say anything and didn’t need to, I knew exactly what he was thinking.

At the end of the day, we only had two baits hanging. Using Impalas as bait is not practical and is expensive. An Impala costs 150 USD to make one bait. In addition, you have to hunt the Impala, which can be time-consuming. I then suggested that we buy an old cow for 200 USD, but that it would produce four baits. After agreeing on a price with the owner, Wayne took his Glock .40 and shot the cow indicated by the owner in the forehead. The next day, we would start with four baits to hang.

This activity is not as simple as it may seem. Sometimes you find tracks, sometimes you don’t, and based on your experience, you can imagine a place where the Leopard would like to pass. We had six baits hanging. Two Impalas and four cow baits. Now we had to let the baits start working, or rather, smelling.

The following days, days six and seven, were days with little activity. We checked the six baits to see if there had been any Leopard activity. Nothing. We returned to the camp and then it was party time. John’s “grocery store” still revealed delicious surprises.

All of us went to bed at about 10:00 pm, except Bruce and Lamberto who had had a hit on their bait and were sitting in hapis blind.

The next morning at 4:00 am Wayne woke me up and said that Lamberto had shot a leopard but the animal had run off into the thick forest. It was around 11:00 pm when Lamberto fired a shot at his cat.

Leopard. After advancing about 15 meters, Bee saw the first drops of blood and further on a large red stain indicating that the shot had hit the lung. About 10 meters ahead, Bruce caught sight of the Leopard. It was dead. Lamberto’s shot was good, missing the heart by a few centimeters but hitting the lung; in fact, it pierced both lungs.

After loading the Leopard into the Toyota we returned to camp. Wayne and I, with Gunter, returned do the task of checking the baits. One of the baits was partially eaten by a Leopard!

Unfortunately, it ate a lot and probably wouldn’t come back the next day. Even so, Wayne decided to go to the blind with Günther and spend the night in the hope that the Leopard would return. When you have a Leopard that hits the bait, you have to check where it came in and where it left. Check the wind direction and only then decide where to place your blind. I prefer to stay away from the bait to reduce the chances of some small noise alerting the animal.

Nothing! The next day, nothing again. The Leopard didn’t come back. A little discouragement began to set in, with the exception of Günther who kept laughing and telling his incredible stories. We had a bait that I had a lot of faith in. It was on the bank of a river, which was dry at that time of year.

We had hung the bait under a small tree very close to the bank. The small tree hid the bait from vultures. We went there to inspect and see if there was any evidence of a leopard. To our delight, there was. A leopard had been there and nibbled a little, which indicated that it had found the bait at dawn and was probably already full. The footprints around it were huge. The claw marks on the tree were deep. It was clear to us that it had found the bait, an impala, at dawn and already satisfied its hunger, but with all the marks it wanted to make it clear that the meat belonged to him.

Looking across the river bed, we saw that the big challenge would be to find a suitable place for a blind. While on that side of the river we had plenty of vegetation, on the other side we had nothing. I never liked building a very artificial blind, but to do something in this case that looked natural would be a mission. That was what we had, so we rolled up our sleeves and went ahead. Hours later the blind was ready, comfortable and big enough to fit Wayne and Günther.

I crossed the river to see how it looked from the Leopard’s perspective. Perfect! Nothing looked artificial. We attached a fishing line to one of the Impala’s legs and the other across the river we attached to the blind. If anything moved in the Impala it would signal us on the other side. We were running out of time. We headed straight back to camp and once there Wayne and Günther quickly ate something and went back to the blind ready for the night.

They arrived at the blind around 3:00 p.m. They parked the Toyota about 300 meters away and continued on foot. Once inside the blind, Wayne took his Swarovski and began to inspect the bait and its surroundings. The bait was about 70 meters away from the blind. Wayne took the 9.3 x 64, loaded it and positioned it pointed at the bait on the other side of the river. The rifle was quite stable and at the right height for Günther to shoot from a kneeling position. Wayne unlocked the rifle and, looking seriously at Günther, said: “no more talk”. He lay down and began to read his pocket book.

I decided not to go with them to the blind. More than two people waiting increases the possibility of noise.

John had been trying to hunt a good Kudu and so far had not been successful. Bee had talked to some locals about it who told him about a place at the foot of a cliff that looked like a forest. No undergrowth but with many small trees. Actually, thin-trunked trees scattered around where a large Kudu appeared almost every afternoon. I had heard this kind of story in Africa a hundred times and most of them were dreams, or wishful thinking. The same thing in the end. I told John everything and we decided to explore the place. When we got there we saw that the description of the place was accurate.

There really was a forest at the foot of a cliff. It could have been a painting of a forest in Europe, full of leaves on the ground. The cliff was about 12 meters high but difficult to climb. But it was the only place where we could hide and wait for the possible Kudu. So we decided to go ahead. I started climbing, watching very carefully where I placed my hand. I told John to follow me and do the same. Every time I placed my hand, I thought it could be the place of a snake. These rocky outcrops are often frequented snakes. Black Mamba, Cobra, etc.

About 8 meters up there was a small plateau with a huge rock on the edge. In this region it is common to see these incredible formations. It is as if someone had placed it on the top of the cliff. This gave us good cover. I first checked to see if there were any snakes on the plateau. Fortunately, there were none, but there were a few scorpions. The sting of this small animal is rarely fatal to a healthy adult, but quite painful. I removed about four or five with the help of my cap and leaned against the large rock with my back to the small forest below. John followed my steps and did the same. It could be a long wait. Every now and then I checked the forest.

Around 5:00 pm during one of these checks I saw an extraordinary Impala. It was alone and its antlers must have been about 26 inches or more. For this region a record. John had already positioned himself and framed the Impala to shoot, but thinking about the Kudu that he so wanted to hunt, I did not release the shot, thinking that it might be close and would get scared and run away. It was a bad decision on my part. The Impala slowly moved away and the Kudu never showed up.

It was about 5:30 pm when John and I arrived back at camp. John was happy with the adventure and I was upset with my decision regarding the Impala. I had promised Lamberto that I would take him to test his night vision in the bush. To do so, I had asked the guys to place some baits of very rotten meat below a platform we had on a tree near the camp. As soon as I got to the camp, I had a coffee and left with Lamberto for the platform in the tree. The baits had been placed and smelled quite strong. The idea was to see if we could attract some animals like Bush Pig, Hyena, Genet Cat and Honey Badger. The idea was that Lamberto could test his new toy but if he wanted to shoot he could. The equipment really was wonderful. You could see clearly and perfectly. Lamberto lent it to me for a few moments and I watched a Genet Cat on the bait.

Back in the blind, Wayne was finishing one of the chapters of his paperback when suddenly the fishing line sounded like a guitar string. It was still daylight and Wayne imagined that it could have been a Kudu that had crossed the dry river and hit the fishing line with its horns. He slowly stood up and looked through his binoculars. There it was, a monstrous Leopard eating the impala bait!

He looked to the side and saw Günther already kneeling, positioning himself at his rifle. The seconds seemed like minutes at that moment. Wayne said, “shoot”, “shoot” and nothing. Suddenly, “Boom“. The shot

hit the Leopard in the heart and hit the spine, making that fabulous animal fall dead in its tracks. An hour later Wayne asked Günther why it had taken him so long to shoot. He replied laughing: “I was observing through the scope how majestic this animal is.” That’s Günther.

Meanwhile, Lamberto and I had been watching the Genet Cat for almost an hour. We could see it quite clearly when I started to hear the roar of an engine. It was coming towards us from behind. It must have been the Toyota coming to pick us up, but it was only 9 pm and I had scheduled it to pick us up at midnight.

The vehicle stopped, I could hear the door opening and closing and then I started to hear someone coming towards us. “Mr. Parker, we’ve come to pick you up. Wayne is calling you back to camp”. “Did they get the Leopard?” I asked. “Yes, a very big one”. I could barely contain my happiness.

Against all odds, we had managed to do it. When I saw the Leopard in the camp, I looked at Günther and he looked like a child with his Christmas present. He hugged me and laughed and cried. I hugged my friend Wayne and thanked him very much for all his effort. Everyone in the camp exploded in celebration. We took lots of pictures and there was free beer for everyone.

Two very large male Leopards in 10 days of hunting is quite an achievement.

We sat around the campfire, and at my request, the group began to sing the Leopard Song. This song moves me every time I hear it. It tells of a patrol of soldiers during the early colonial wars when Cecil John Rhodes´s columns were fighting the Matabele north of Bulawayo and when the Matabele warriors were surrounding the patrol in the darkness, in order to identify one another, they would call out of the names of their “impi” or unit.

In Wayne’s camps, it has become a tradition to sing this song every time a hunter manages to collect a leopard. The staff place the leopard in front of the fire, sit behind it and first begin to act out the hunt. One of them represents the leopard and the other the hunter. The one representing the hunter incorporates into his representation the mannerisms of the hunter observed during the hunt. In front of them sit the hunter, the PH and occasionally others. All this with lots of beer.

Once the representation is over, they begin to sing the leopard song, “Ingwe“. One of them sings the first note and the main group sings the second. A very primitive drum, sometimes made from a hollowed-out wooden trunk, sets the rhythm. The sound provokes great emotion in me. The drinking continues on both sides of the fire and the song is repeated several times. I have witnessed picturesque scenes at the end when everything is dark and it is difficult to find the bungalow or tent. When I hunted my two leopards, I confess that I had difficulty finding my bungalow.

I have all these moments and the Leopard Song well preserved in my memory: “Ingwe! Ingwe Banile? Ingwe msila, hela ma bala, ingwe msila! Mana lapha, se nkhlume lowe, ingwe msila”. (Leopard !Who is the leopard ? Leopard, with tail, he has spots, leopard, his tail. Wait there ! We wish to speak with you, Leopard, tail)

These si´ndebele words passed down through generations – about a battle fought so long ago, create a haunting mood of Africa, and the beautiful way these Africans sing this song, seemed a perfect end to our successful double leopard hunt.

By Richard Lendrum

So, Zambia is the country of my birth and, having left at three years old to move to Bulawayo, Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe), meant I remembered nothing. The sum total of my experience with the land of my birth was a visit to Kubu Lodge just upstream from Vic Falls – perhaps 15 years ago – and swimming in the iconic Devil’s Pools literally a few meters from the edge where the water cascades into the Boiling Pot below. So, the opportunity to go with my great pal and longtime contributor to the AHG, Ken Bailey, for his dream buffalo hunt, was just what I needed. Not only because it is my annual forced ‘get out of Joburg trip’ with Ken, albeit that we usually wingshoot, it was a great excuse to just immerse myself in what Zambia had to offer.

I fell in love. It’s why I will never desert this continent. The ride out to this wilderness area east of the country, was an eye opener. At one extreme, narrow roads with loads of trucks ensure you value life. Then on the other, there is utter poverty with people doing what they can to survive; selling berries they collect in the wild, dried fish, handmade curios and fruit and vegetables in roadside stalls, and essential goods in markets where human life is at its most vibrant.

My pictures will have to do the talking.

The bird life was extraordinary. A cruise down the river – I am not sure how many tourists do this on the Luangwa, and dare I say, I think it has every possibility of rivaling the boat trips down the Zambezi from Chirundu to Mana Pools, which I have been privileged to do. We counted 40 species of birdlife in the morning as we meandered down, and a monkey I had never heard of – Molony’s White-collared Monkey.    

The sad reality of much of Africa, and Zambia is no different – is that strong western, northern, or in this case, eastern powers, either initiate or engage in a partnership that leaves the country being plundered. Indigenous trees are indiscriminately cut by Chinese loggers and by local inhabitants desperate for survival, producing and selling their own charcoal. Bags of once wonderful trees are reduced to 80 or 90 pounds of black blocks shoved into a heavy-duty bag – all for around $3. Cyclists / taxis with two and three of these sacks loaded on to their bikes head to wherever they can sell them on the roadside between the Luangwa and Lusaka, the capital. I didn’t see much of the capital, (thankfully, I believe!) but we stayed in a piece of paradise – Wild Dog Lodge – owned by a tour operator selling safaris across the sub-continent.  Trees, birds, and Zambian hospitality that was just so slow but impossible not to love.  Time means nothing. And perhaps that is one of the lessons there.

Village life for the majority of Zambia’s country folk is something that needs to be seen to believed. We drove around a village near where we stayed – it hadn’t changed probably in hundred or more years. No electricity, no running water, one well for the entire village. Just the Chief had iron sheets on the roof.  And the happiest kids everywhere. Acceptance that this is it…  well certainly while they are so young. Living with and having no option other than to deal with what challenges they face. The village our tracker came from, which was about a day’s road trip north, had lost four people this year so far, from elephant, croc and lion. Four humans, lost in just one village. There are no statistics countrywide to record this. No way right now, that this human tragedy is even recorded, let alone noted. I was stunned. This is Africa.

I managed to bring home a collection of fantastic rocks, driftwood from the banks of this mighty river, some seedpods – all to add to the safari sanctuary of Afton – although it was a little nerve-wracking having to explain to the Zambian authorities when their scanners picked up the round objects on the X-ray – but that is another story.

I met a South Africa couple who had been in Australia for 30 years, huge farmers in the west of Australia, and what were they doing? Wanting to invest in Zambia and start farming there! Sure, they had made money, it was most probably safer, but then what? Obviously, there was something calling them back.

I flew home, thinking. Thinking how I could, in my small way, somehow help this lush, fertile country, blessed with an abundance of so much – vegetation, space, wildlife, people.

It’s starting with sharing this short account … designing the new logo for the Zambian Professional Hunters Association – and there will be more in the times ahead. Of that you can be certain.  

Enjoy the pictures.  

Written by Shiri Castellan 

An experience that forever cemented my love for hunting.

“I’ve been hunting for over twenty-five years and the biggest misconception people have is thinking that hunters are just killers. Whereas, in truth, every hunter I know has the greatest respect and love for animals. We are nature lovers,” Ashlie* confessed.

The year was 2000; I was twelve years old, female, and sharing my first hunting experience with my father. An anomaly of sorts. I walked closely behind him and followed his instructions as I placed my feet directly in his footsteps. I avoided making any sudden movements, kept my voice low, and talk to a minimum. The month was June; the weather was cool, and we were climbing up a mountainous region on a walk and stalk in search of kudu. The trail ran up a hill, and then through thick shrubbery. Eventually, we approached a lone standing tree, and, in the distance, we spotted a herd of kudu, and stopped. My father motioned for me to stand still as he rested his rifle against the tree trunk. His eyes scanned the herd, and he selected a kudu cow. I remember holding my breath as he aligned his eye with the scope of his .375 H&H rifle and aimed for a spot just above the kudu’s shoulder joint. Gently, he squeezed off the shot. The kudu cow jerked on impact and stumbled, mortally wounded, disappearing into the thick bush on the other side of the mountain.

Even though I was standing behind my father as he took the shot, because of my adrenaline, I hardly heard the bang. All I could hear was a faint buzz.

“Missed!” shouted the guide. He was convinced that my father had missed the animal, as he wasn’t accustomed to someone shooting accurately from two hundred meters away. My father, however, knew better.

As we walked towards the area where the kudu was hit, my father used this opportunity to teach me how to use blood and spoor in tracking an animal. Nearing the area where the kudu cow had been standing, we found blood specks and uneven spoor impressions in the soil. The grass at waist height had faint blood markings indicative of a shoulder shot. Twenty meters later, we found the kudu; the shot had penetrated its vitals and exited on the other side. I stood motionless, never having been this close to a wild animal before, and stared at its majestic beauty. Bending down, my father showed me how to age the cow by looking at the wearing down of the teeth. The teeth on this kudu were worn down, indicating that this one was mature.

The guide told the farmer that a kudu had been shot, and a bakkie collected the animal and us and drove us to the cold room, where I watched as the trackers gutted and skinned the cow. That night after we braaied our food on the campfire, the farm owner asked my father to assist him in culling some impalas (in accordance with nature conservation quotas). I sat on the back of the bakkie as we drove, and recall being mesmerized by the green reflected color of the impala’s eyes.

From that day on, I accompanied my father on as many hunts as I could, appreciating nature and taking in every lesson he taught me. It was imperative to him that I participated in every step of the hunting process, from walking and stalking to skinning, and I learned old-school hunting ethics.

It wouldn’t be until I was sixteen that I got to be in a hunt of my very own.

I was an outdoorsy person. Every hunt and stalk I went on, I saw as an adventure. I learned about nature, about animals and I loved every moment. And, when I wasn’t tracking through the bush, I was perfecting my shooting skills at the range. Which is why, when I was sixteen and my father and grandfather went on a Musina hunt, it was only natural that I joined in.

The hunting farm was in Alldays, a six-hour drive from Musina, a beautiful area just outside the Botswana border. We stayed in a tented camp hunters’ style, made use of outdoor showers and longdrops, and cooked our meals over a campfire. Yet, despite the cool June air, it is the stars I remember the most. They shone brightly and covered the night sky. Even as I showered and the water sluiced over my body, I recall looking up and being awed by the luminous constellations.

We had arrived at the campsite in the afternoon and after unloading our car, we sighted in our rifles. The rifle, a 7×57 CZ 550 (using a 7mm 140-grain Remington Corelots) I was to use was my father’s, and I felt honored to have been entrusted with his prized possession, a rifle and caliber that I was more than comfortable having been practicing with it at the shooting range under my father’s tutelage. 

The 7×57 was the first rifle my father bought himself, having always appreciated the history of this caliber, which is why, to this day, it is still a family favorite. The 7×57 was made famous by Walter D.M. Bell, otherwise known as “Karamojo” Bell because of his safaris through the remote wilderness area in northeastern Uganda. He is famous for perfecting the brain shot on elephants and killing over 1011 for ivory (1902). Bell perfected this shot to the degree that he mastered it from all positions. This has been since referred as the “BELL SHOT”.

Furthermore, the 7×57mm offers very good penetrating ability due to a fast twist rate that enables it to fire long, heavy bullets with a high sectional density (perfect for Africa). The 7×57 can handle a wide range of projectile weights, is easy to reload, has relatively mild recoil, and is accurate.

The next day we woke at four-thirty in the morning, the weather was icy, and as we warmed ourselves around the campfire, we drank dark, bitter coffee out of metal mugs. It was decided that while the men would be dropped off at their respective hunting sites, I, as the newcomer, would have to walk accompanied by a young hunting guide, while carrying both my rifle and a backpack. This, they assured me, was only right for a first-time hunter. It seemed that my hunt would entail many firsts, and so far, I’d embraced each one.

That day as we walked, I came upon many warthog opportunities and, while I had every intention of taking a shot, my nerves were alight with excitement as adrenaline pumped through my veins and the rifle shook in my hands. I looked at the warthog through the lens of the scope and my hands trembled, unable to squeeze the trigger, my body overridden by nerves. Teasingly, my guide told me that I suffered from what is commonly known as ‘bok koors’ or buck fever. I didn’t rush it that day. Instead, we walked, as I took in my surroundings and accustomed my eyes to the bushveld.

The next morning, we awoke before dawn. I wrapped my hands around a mug of coffee as I mentally prepared for the day ahead and ensured my backpack had all the necessary supplies including water, fruit, knife and the customary ‘white gold’ (toilet paper). Then, with the rifle slung over my shoulder alongside my backpack, the guide and I left the camp. As we walked, the day grew hot, and I began to peel off the heavy layers I was wearing. I took off my jacket and hung it on a nearby tree branch to collect on our way back.

Despite the weight of the rifle and backpack, I loved walking through the bushveld and being one with nature. It was then that the guide taught me how to gauge wind direction. I watched as he took a sock filled with flour from his pocket and hit it on his leg. A white, smoke-like puff appeared, a trick often used to determine wind direction, enabling a hunter to know if it is blowing into him or behind him, to prevent his scent from being carried through the bushveld and alerting the animals of his arrival.

It was around nine that morning that we saw them, a herd of impala. We made our way towards them, and as we walked, we briefly lost sight of them. However, we were not deterred. The guide then walked ahead of me, and I got down on my hands and knees and crawled the rest of the way. I advanced gradually and as I reached the top of the sand dune, I spotted them in the clearing, grateful that they hadn’t seen or smelled our approach.

With the rifle resting on top of the dune, I lay on my stomach and calmly watched the herd. I stayed in that position for some time until my eyes caught sight of an impala ewe that broke away from the herd. She stood slightly apart; her neck craned as she grazed leaves on a nearby tree. I watched her, transfixed, as I raised my rifle and traced the crosshairs up her leg to a spot just above her shoulder. This time, despite the pounding of my heart, I held the rifle steady as I gently squeezed off a shot.

The impala did a backflip only to land mortally wounded in the same spot. The shot had penetrated just above the shoulder bone, piercing the heart and lungs, instantly killing it. The rest of the herd disappeared as the rifle went off while I remained seated on the dune a safe distance away. Gradually, respectfully, I walked towards the ewe, and then I kneeled beside her and stroked the soft side of her stomach. Closing my eyes, I gave thanks for this animal.

The guide tucked the impala’s legs in so that she lay in a straight position, enabling me to take a photo with her. From a distance, I saw the recovery vehicle approach, knowing that the guide had called the farmer and told him about my hunt. Together we loaded the ewe onto the bakkie and drove towards the cold-room in silence. My father and grandfather, who had heard from the farmer that I’d successfully completed my first hunt, eagerly awaited my arrival. Together, we watched as the impala was skinned and gutted. The liver was removed, and then, to my horror, a slice handed to me. “Eat!” they commanded. “You’re lucky it wasn’t a male, otherwise you’d be eating the testicles,” they joked. And as I bit into the raw meat, I understood this to be my rite of passage.

That night the farmer and guides joined my family around the campfire, and as we braaied meat, we shared hunting stories of times gone by. I was delightfully exhausted, my feet sore from two days of non-stop tracking, but my mood was jovial. Spyker, the farmer’s Jack Russell and hunting dog, lay by my side, and out of the corner of my eye I saw a shadow sprint to and from the light. My heart stopped. And then I saw it again, as it followed Spyker’s shadow, its reddish-brown body dashing around in the shadows. That was my first encounter with the Kalahari Ferrari (Red Roman spider).

That weekend, that hunt marked many firsts but not lasts for me. To this day, I still join my father on numerous hunts, my husband by my side as we introduce our three-year-old sons, Hunter and Gunner, to the wonder that is nature and the experience that is the hunt.