Aug 5, 2017 | News
One for the Road, AHG 23.1
Wieland
It’s tempting to change the names in this piece to protect the guilty, but instead we’ll just go with Christian names and let the reader speculate. It all happened a long time ago — almost a quarter century — and those involved are dead for all I know.
There’s an old saying in America: “As serious as a heart attack,” and hunting Cape buffalo is every bit as serious. Sometimes, though, it’s a comedy of errors you look back on with sheer gratitude that you survived.
We were hunting buffalo on Mount Longido, near the Rift, got a good bull high on the mountain in a hair-raising escapade, and returned to our home base, which was a large flower and ostrich farm outside Arusha. A Texan named Jerry owned the farm with a consortium of friends, and was starting a safari company as well. He’d hired a couple of Rhodesian professional hunters to run it. I’d killed my bull up on the mountain with one of them, and now I was going buffalo hunting again, down near Tarangiri, with the other, a grizzled PH named Gordon.
Jerry and Gordon detested each other. Gordon, being a licenced professional of long experience, felt he should be in charge. Jerry, as the owner of the company, disagreed. He treated Gordon little better than a manservant, and this did not sit well with a guy who’d fought through the bush war in Rhodesia, and had been a PH for years before Jerry ever set foot in Africa. Gordon was also whipcord lean the way professional hunters were in the days when they walked almost everywhere, with sun-creased eyes that had seen too much, and Jerry’s well-fed Texan ways did not sit well.
Our trip down to Tarangiri encountered endless delays involving special licences, so one evening, with no prospect of hunting on the morrow, Gordon and I headed into Arusha for a good, old-fashioned pub crawl. We drank our way from saloon to saloon, down one side of the main drag and up the other, and around two in the morning found ourselves at the old Greek Club on the edge of town. That’s where everyone ended up when the other pubs closed.
Gordon said he was too unsteady to drive and assigned me the wheel, even though I had no idea how to get home and was just as unsteady as he was. But off we weaved. Every so often I’d shake him awake and ask which way to go. He’d point a finger and nod off again. Somehow, we reached the farm in the dead of night, and there we found Jerry, madder than hell, waiting up for us and brandishing a sheaf of licences.
“We’re going hunting,” he snarled. “We have to leave in an hour!”
An hour! Gordon staggered off for a nap, but I figured, with some convoluted logic, that if I was going to die, I wanted to die clean. I had a bath, then passed out on the bed for 15 minutes before being shaken awake with the beginnings of a hangover such as only over-strength East African beer, combined with gin, can inflict.
Jerry was still tight-lipped angry as he assured us the truck was loaded and ready to go, and off we went with Gordon at the wheel. How on earth he could drive, I’ve never figured out. In about an hour and half we got there, pulled off the tarmac and headed cross country toward the park boundary. We were going to hunt the edges, in the area that inspired Hemingway’s title Green Hills of Africa. Green they were, too, and extraordinarily beautiful in the early dawn. It was a good day to die, and I was rather looking forward to it. My hangover increased as we drove, doubling and redoubling every hour.
As we climbed out, we made two unwelcome discoveries. One, Jerry the Mastermind had forgotten to pack any water, and Gordon and I were both suffering a hangover thirst like I had never experienced before. And never since, as a matter of fact. Jerry, of course, blamed Gordon who “should have checked” the water supply.
The second discovery was that Gordon had neglected to bring his rifle, so off we went to hunt mbogo with a PH armed only with his little bag of ashes to check the wind direction.
“Don’t worry,” Jerry muttered, “he probably couldn’t hit anything anyway.” That was reassuring.
Traversing a sort of plateau, we spotted a half dozen bulls in the distance, and Gordon and I dropped onto our stomachs to crawl forward to a deadfall. Gordon was making the usual signs to keep quiet, keep down, stay out of sight. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, the bulls thundered away. We looked behind, and there was Jerry, strolling along, making no effort at stealth. If Gordon said something, he was going to do the opposite. Crawl? No way. From that moment, the two did not exchange a word the rest of the day.
We continued through the green hills, the day warming steadily, and thirst became all-consuming. We spotted all kinds of buffalo sign, and soon found ourselves flushing them like grouse — generally getting fleeting glimpses, at a distance. The grass was high, there was no way to stalk them, and taking random shots at departing bulls is not something your insurance company would approve.
At one point, though, as a big bull jumped to his feet and paused, Jerry shouted “Shoot! Shoot!” and like a fool, I did. He stumbled, disappeared into an overgrown donga, and reappeared a few minutes later on the far hillside, making tracks. I was about to take another crack at him — slim chance though it was — when Jerry grabbed the rifle out of my hands and started fumbling to put the scope back on, which he had insisted on removing earlier. Meanwhile, the bull disappeared.
Then began a memorable day of following the track of the wounded bull, mile after mile under the hot sun. Gordon concluded he was not badly hurt, and had probably suffered a hit in the foot. Don’t ask me, I have no explanation. But it allowed us to pick out his track from others we came across. And on we went, as my all-devouring thirst reached epic proportions and I began to hallucinate about icy mountain streams.
At midday, we stopped to rest in a dry riverbed, and Gordon began scooping a hole in the sand, hoping to reach water. About a foot down the sand became moist, and soon there was a yellowish liquid seeping in, forming a frothy pool in the bottom. From somewhere he produced a cup and an old handkerchief. Placing the cloth over the cup, he lowered it into the yellow muck, allowing the handkerchief to filter the water as it dribbled in. He handed me the cup with a flourish.
“Warthog and buffalo piss, mostly,” he said gallantly, “But it should help.”
I managed to gag down about three mouthfuls while trying to imagine bubbling brooks or bottles of Perrier. As he predicted, my thirst magically disappeared — for a minute, at least. I then went off into the bushes. When I reappeared, Gordon leapt to his feet, pulled a knife and came for me. Thinking thirst had driven him mad, I was looking for my rifle when he dropped to his knees and starting frantically scraping my pant legs with the blade.
“Pepper ticks,” he said. “You’re covered with them! God, what did you get into?” I looked down and sure enough, my khaki pants looked like a well-peppered potato. Ticks! Ugh!
And that, dear readers, right there, was the highlight of the day. The peak. The summit. We choked down a few more mouthfuls of the alleged water, resumed the trek, and trailed after the buffalo for a few miles until he crossed into the park, at which point we turned back for the truck. It was between five miles and ten miles away, Gordon estimated. It may have been less. It felt like more.
The slow, lurching drive back to the tarmac took an eon. The Greeks took Troy. Rome fell. Columbus discovered America. Time crept by on thirst-tortured, trudging feet. Finally, the pavement. We hit 50 miles an hour.
“How long to a ducca?” I asked.
“Half an hour,” Gordon replied. “Got any money?”
Well, no, I hadn’t thought to bring any, since we were hunting buffalo and I hadn’t expected to buy one, or leave a tip. In fact, no one in that Toyota had so much as a shilling. We searched the glove box, down behind the seats, all the usual places where coins migrate. Not a sou.
Finally, we reached a roadside duka and pulled over. Gordon looked hungrily at the watch on my wrist, then my Swarovskis on the seat. Without a word, he picked up the binoculars, disappeared inside, and reappeared in a few minutes with an armful of bottles of orange squash and warm beer.
My first bottle disappeared in a mouthful. My second — a warm Tusker, and warm Tusker never tasted so good — was half gone when I stopped slurping long enough to ask.
“Don’t worry, we’ll come back for your binos tomorrow,” Gordon said, and we resumed our long, gulping draughts of frothy, malty, bubbling elixir of the gods.
Finally, Gordon came up for air.
“You know,” he said, “I think tonight I’ll give the Greek Club a miss.”
***
Aug 5, 2017 | News
It was a high note for me, early 2017.
It was my first visit to Dallas, Texas and I was also going to exhibit at the Dallas Safari Club Convention held annually at the Kay Bailey Hutchison Convention Centre. My booth was next to the African Hunting Gazette’s, and together with Kim Gattone and Birgit Reprich from AHG, we made a great team.
The show is huge in every regard, and the cliché that “everything is bigger in Texas” certainly rang true! I met many new people and potential clients, and the feedback regarding my artwork was overwhelmingly positive.
Last year Richard Lendrum, publisher of AHG, came up with the idea that they could represent my work in the U.S. so I sent four pieces to Kim Gattone, manager of their gallery and curio shop African Oasis in Dillon, Montana, and I was very excited when my work was sold.
After this year’s DSC Convention I sent six large paintings and two small black and white paintings to African Oasis, and five pieces sold within the first five months! Although Dillon is a very small town, it is popular during the summer months, and Kim is doing a sterling job managing and running the shop.
I am an animal lover, with animals and wildlife being my prime subject matter, so conservation of our wildlife and its natural habitat lies close to my heart. That said, it’s not always easy to find ways to channel one’s enthusiasm, talent and energy towards projects and causes that actually make a positive difference, but last year two such opportunities arose, and if all goes well, both will come to fruition.
Last year, while visiting Phelwana Lodge, near the Timbavati Private Nature Reserve, I became aware of the amazing conservation projects the Timbavati Foundation runs. The Foundation’s vision is firmly rooted in the spirit of Ubuntu, a Zulu word meaning “a person is a person through other persons” – the fact that none of us function in isolation, and whatever we do (or fail to do) affects others, which in turn affects the whole world.
The Timbavati Foundation runs an environmental school which provides an interactive environmental education program for primary and senior school children, with training being tailored to the activities, needs and challenges of the communities in the area. Training takes learners out of the classroom and into the bush, and the funds that the Foundation receives are exclusively for direct project-related costs, such as the construction of netted gardens, the placement of water tanks, and/or the sinking of boreholes.
This inspired me to want to contribute in some way. I had a chat with the management team at Phelwana Lodge. A few months later I met with two of the Timbavati Foundation Trustees to discuss some practical options, and we settled on three black and white paintings that I wanted to donate. These paintings are currently displayed and available for purchase at the exclusive Makanyi Lodge’s curio shop in the the Timbavati Private Nature Reserve, and the money from these sales will be channeled back to the Timbavati Foundation.
Last year I also visited the Hoedspruit Endangered Species Centre with overseas clients. The center is a unique African wildlife facility focusing on conservation and the sustainability of rare, vulnerable, and threatened species. Cheetah conservation is one of the core disciplines, and I offered to contribute in some way if possible. I was later contacted by the founder of the center, Lente Roode, who goes annually to fundraise for the center in New York.
I offered to do a painting of one of the animals at the center that could be auctioned off at one of the functions, and she suggested a painting of a cheetah male, named Crunchie, one of the center’s cheetah ambassadors. We took many beautiful photos of him, and if all goes well, I will paint this beautiful cheetah.
Being an artist and creating beautiful lasting images with paint on canvas is, and always will be, my passion and privilege, and like most people I want to make a difference – through my art – no matter how small the contribution may be.
As Jane Goodall so aptly stated: You cannot get through a single day without having an impact on the world around you. What you do makes a difference, and you have to decide what kind of difference you want to make.
To contact ILSE personally or to commission that special painting for your office or home, you are welcome to contact her via email: art@ilsewildlife.co.za
Website: http://ilsewildlife.com
FB: ILSE Wildlife
Aug 2, 2017 | News
We were lucky enough to secure a tag on a property in the northern part of Limpopo Province, South Africa, a beautiful, picturesque area with scattered boulders and granite outcrops – a leopard’s paradise. Our animal was taken near the town of Mussina.
I had been hunting this particular old male for four years, following his movements and habits on trail camera, trying to discern his habits. He was an Educated Super Cat! I dubbed him the “Sperm Male” due to a sperm-shaped marking behind his shoulder.
I had a client from the Philippines who wanted to take a large male leopard – so “sperm male” was our target.
The hunt started with the typical baiting and scouting for tracks and other signs. I had a handful of regular places that I baited for this particular tom. I had also established that he only fed in the pre-dawn hours, and seldom, if ever, returned to a bait the following night.
For 11 nights we slept in blinds over baits where I expected him to show, when finally we found fresh sign, close to a bait site. By then he had already hit a bait, briefly, where we sat, but before we could get ready to take a shot he had left again, obviously suspecting danger.
The site where I expected him to hit was a good set-up, except for a few pitfalls. The wind would change during the night to the exact opposite, meaning that I would have to build the blind on the “wrong” side of the bait, hoping that it would be right by 5 a.m. the following morning. Also, the only spot I could build a blind, was slap-bang in the middle of a path that the leopard regularly used when approaching the bait.
We built the blind about 85 yards away, and then we packed a wall of branches about 50 m long diagonally across the path of his normal approach, forcing him to change course and approach the bait through our shooting lane, but upwind from us.
This worked, and the leopard was on the bait at around 5.30 a.m. after a very long and cold night for us. My client was also quite noisy when lying down, so I had him in a chair, sitting upright for 12 hours! When the time came, I nudged him, and he got into a shooting position. When the light went on he could not see the leopard lying on the branch, but it slipped off into the shadows. My mood dropped into my shoes, but not five minutes later the tom was on the branch again and side on, and brilliantly exposed to our view.
The shot rang, and a feeling of elation and relief overcame both of us. That feeling cannot be described, and only someone who has endured and worked the same way for such a great trophy would understand.
Both the hunter and I were exhausted and full of aches and pains – but it felt great!
Apr 25, 2017 | News
Some people hunt for sport, some hunt to relax, and some hunt for food. But there are others who hunt for the thrill and the sense of danger that comes with being out in the wild among some of the world’s most exotic and ferocious creatures. For this type of hunting, there’s no better place than Africa, the Dark Continent. Hunting in Africa offers big game and incomparable thrills, particularly in the following locales:
Namibia
Namibia is one of the more underrated hunting places in Africa, as most people struggle to find it on a map. However, the country has become quite hunter-friendly and is one of the few places where cheetahs, the fastest land mammal in the world, can be hunted. Some bigger game like lion, buffalo, and elephant can also be hunted. Namibia is where hunters should be able to explore different parts of the country and find animals that will be tough to find elsewhere on the continent.
Tanzania
Hunting in Tanzania is exciting, largely because of the vast number of species and their populations in East Africa. There are literally dozens of species on a hunter’s radar in Tanzania, including zebra, impala and water buffalo, plus bigger game like lion, leopard, and hippo. With enough time, ammo, and skill, you can bag several different animals during a hunting excursion to Tanzania.
Cameroon
Cameroon is a totally different part of Africa from the other countries on this list, so it offers unique opportunities and challenges. The country features the only active volcano in Western Africa, Mount Cameroon, which last erupted in 2012. Hunting around this area is bound to be thrilling. If you prefer to stick to the forests, they are so dense that when you’re hunting you may not find your target until you’re just a few feet away – this can create a real rush. The animals here may not be quite as ferocious, but there’s some big game in Cameroon, including the bongo, a species of antelope.
South Africa
South Africa is undoubtedly one of the most exciting places in Africa to hunt, as it offers a diverse array of climates and terrains, leading to a variety of hunting options. This includes some of Africa’s most dangerous species like lion, crocodile, and hippo. Even hunting elephants isn’t out of the question, allowing you to come face to face with the largest land animal on the planet.
Zimbabwe
Neighbouring South Africa is Zimbabwe, a country best known for challenging hunters with some of the most dangerous game on the continent. Lion, leopard, and elephant are all available. Also, in certain safari areas of Zimbabwe, those big game animals may be in the same areas as plains animals like zebra, wildebeest, and impala, giving you the chance to hunt multiple animals at one time.
Apr 11, 2017 | News
It’s not unusual for a hunter to open the lock box on his bakkie and pull out a Winchester M-70 as he prepares for the hunt. When it comes to crossbows, this is another matter entirely. Despite the personal preferences of hunters in Africa, crossbow hunting is a million dollar industry in the States. This is with good reason, and we explore those reasons here.
Spooked Game, Bad Recoil, and a Master’s Degree
Proficient hunters often tell you they’ve been in the game for a number of years. They started as a kid, and a parent or grandparent took them out back to practice their shooting on tin cans and old Coke bottles. This soon escalated to doves and dassies, and by the time they graduated from high school, they’d already landed their very first kudu. Their faces beam with pleasure as they relay the stories, but they don’t tell you how it took them years to get the hang of the recoil from the gun. In fact, it took a few bruises to get going.
Also, those long and arduous hours, and even days, waiting for game to pass your shelter because the last ring of a blast is still hanging in the air. Waiting for spooked game can be a difficult hunt, as their movements become very unpredictable.
Finally, they don’t tell you that it took hours and hours of practice to feel confident enough to pull that trigger. Once again that recoil becomes the biggest consideration as the kick takes a long time to master. Not just for the pain factor, but also to keep aim. The level of control to hit the target takes long.
Bowhunting Works In the States, But Will It Work in Africa?
With recent legislation changing favorably to those who want to nock their arrows, bowhunting is fast gaining momentum in Southern Africa. But before crossing the oceans in search of the best game, it’s important to have the right gear for the hunt. This ensures that the arrow, distance, and momentum is sufficient to land the prey. Deciding on the type of bow to use during the next hunt, will largely be determined by the quarry. The regulations are similar to many of the regulations in the States and will point the hunter in the right direction. This includes the minimum draw mass, kinetic energy, and arrow weight.
Mar 31, 2017 | News
After many hours of negotiation and deliberation with the organisations in the USA , mainly Mr John Fraser from the National Rifle Association who tirelessly helped and answered questions , submitted clarifications the Central Firearms Register and Commander of the South African Police Firearm import office at Or Tambo have advised that no matter what information is submitted to the authorities about the non expiry of a US Customs Form 4457 they wish to see a US Customs form stamped by US Customs with a 2017 date on it . This form is used to prove ownership of the firearm. They wish to see this form completed correctly with all the relevant information on it : Firearm Type / Make / Model/ calibre / Serial number on the form .
Please can you take time out and get an updated form that has the a 2017 date on it. I apologise for the inconvenience but to experience a trouble free start to your safari this needs to be done .
At this time it is my understanding that applications that are already submitted for a pre-issued permit will be honoured but applications from now on in must have the 2017 date on the US Customs form 4457 .
If we receive any updates I will be passing them onto the readers .
The updated form CBP Form 4457 is available by clicking here.
