Chapter Four

Return to The Hills

As the Rhodesian war blazed into 1980, a ceasefire was brokered, and to keep us soldiers busy and out of mischief we were allocated various tasks throughout Mashonaland in support of the Department of National Parks and Wildlife. These anti-poaching and patrol duties were a far cry from our recent violent assaults into guerrilla camps in Chimoio and Mapaai in Mozambique, but we enjoyed them. They were relaxing, and our support gave the Wildlife people a chance to catch up on duties long neglected in “hot” areas during the war. We were deployed at Kariba, then Mana Pools and then at the Umfurudzi National Park, enjoying the wilderness areas without having to live every second expecting mayhem of some sort. When the elections were over there was suddenly a huge number of surprised young men who had not contemplated life outside the military but who were now staring it in the face. What options were there for young white ex-Rhodesian soldiers in the new Zimbabwe? Many left the country but others, like myself, had not even thought about life in another land.

We were young, fit, and highly trained in the use of several weapons and in combat. We could survive easily in adverse conditions, and we were rich pickings for the Department of National Parks and Wildlife. I was coerced into signing on and extending my army contract for one more month. An old Rhodesian tradition, a rugby match held once a year between the army and the air force, had fallen away during the last few hectic years of the war and someone wished to revive it. I was “asked” to commence training with the army squad and it was actually a pleasant surprise once I was back on the field. I had captained the School of Infantry rugby team at Gwelo and vice captained the Provincial under 21 side only eighteen months or so before, so it was not that big a step to get back into the game. The match was a cracker and ended 28 all. A good result, many of us thought. During that month of rugby training, after thinking back on the work we had done with Parks and Wildlife, I decided to join them. My troop sergeant had already joined the department and he wasted no time in getting stuck into his new job. I reported to the Department offices in Harare and filled in all the relative application forms and two weeks later was called in for an interview.

My interviewing officer was a pleasant gentleman, and once it had been established that I had been at boarding school at Reps and Plumtree, (both his old schools) the rest was just waffling. He knew many of the folks I had grown up with in Victoria Falls, including the Landreys, and after a pleasant half hour chat I was accepted. I was briefed on what would be expected from me and what general direction my life was going to take. He ended with “Welcome to the Department, young man. Let me get this all processed and I will call you within two weeks to give you your posting.”

I stayed with Margie and her family in Harare and awaited my call. Four weeks later, bored to death, I decided to drop in at the Parks offices and see what the delay was. I approached the office where I had been interviewed and found someone else seated there.

The door was open, but the busy fellow failed to acknowledge my presence in his doorway, so I knocked on the doorframe. The head lifted slowly and I saw immediately that we were not going to get on. The terms bureaucratic, stuffy, pompous and rude all sprung to mind. This fellow could have been anywhere between forty and sixty. He was grey haired, skinny-necked and his glasses made him look like an owl. “What do you want?” He said. I explained my whole story to him; he listened without expression or comment. When I had finished he gestured at a pile of forms on the corner of his desk, “Fill in one of those.” I picked up the form and looked at it. This was the same application form

that I had filled in six weeks previously before my interview! I do not have a quick temper, but I have other faults. One of them is that if l detect, or even think that I detect, that somebody is deliberately harassing me for their own personal gain or amusement, I begin to boil. It got me into box-loads of trouble at school, it got me into hot water in the army and I could feel it coming now. “Excuse me,” I said. “This is the same form I filled out before. I’ve already been through this – I’ve been accepted!”

“Your paperwork appears to have been lost,” this stuffy old goat told me, “do it again.”

I realised that I was only twenty years old, but I had been commanding a troop of more than twenty hardened soldiers in combat, in life and death situations for more than a year, I wasn’t going to take this rude behaviour from a “civvy” (civilian). “You know what?” I told him – crunching the form up into a ball and flipping it onto his desk, “I’m glad that you came here, that you took over this office – because now I can see that I don’t want to work for a department that has rude useless old pricks like you in positions of power.” I said two more words to his staring owl face and left. When I returned to Margie’s parents’  house I made a telephone call to Major Don Price at Beit Bridge. I don’t know how many times over the years I look back at that fateful day and thank my lucky stars. No doubt I would have gone into professional hunting at some time later on, like many ex-Parks people did, but how much I would have missed!

Don bad been Officer Commanding Three Commando, Rhodesian Light Infantry, whilst I was a subaltern in One Commando. Our paths had crossed in Fire Force duties in those hectic months toward the end of that bloody war, and Don had offered me a job if and when hostilities ceased. Don was a respected officer and effective Fire Force commander, and the recipient of The Bronze Cross of Rhodesia.

Don formed a safari company with a colleague of his and named it Inkunzi (The Bull) Safaris, and I went to work for him in the Nyamandhlovu area near the confluence of the Khami and Gwaai rivers. This was my first year as a professional hunter and I enjoyed that exciting season in a remote, beautiful part of Matabeleland.

In 1982 I found safari work up at my old home area – Victoria Falls, where 1 worked for Fanie Pretorius (Westwood Wildlife) and then for Dan Landrey of Denda Safaris, at Matetsi. By 1983 I had my full professional hunter’s licence and I free-lance hunted for several companies, including those of Clive Lennox, Piers Taylor, Dan Landrey and Dave Masson.

In 1983 a Scandinavian by the name of Soren Haagensen formed a partnership with Dan Landrey who at this time secured the Chewore north hunting concession in the Zambezi valley. With their Matetsi Safari area Unit Five and the Chewore area, the Landreys were able to offer a lot of big game safaris, and Soren Haagensen, as part of the Denda organisation, landed a sizeable chunk of the quota. The Zambezi valley bad been closed to any commercial and public operations during the Rhodesian war, and now, when it hesitantly opened some areas for the first time, the hunting was spectacular. In those days it was not possible to walk after buffalo or elephant without encountering black rhino. There were many of them. Today, there is not a single one of them left in the valley. It is the end of an era.

Soren Haagensen was a dynamic man and he forged all sorts of connections throughout Matabeleland which enabled him to offer a variety of both big game and plainsgame hunts to his Scandinavian clients. It was a busy, hectic time for me, being based at different times on a piece of land Soren was buying in Matetsi, the Chewore concession and Bulawayo. One of the associations Soren made was with the Greenspan family, who were very big landowners in Matabeleland at that time. I took several safaris onto the Greenspan ranches at Nyamandhlovu where sable were plentiful, and good general bags were collected without much difficulty. Little did we know in those days that we were taking this abundant game for granted. Twenty years later, there is very little left in those once game-rich areas.

I did not know the Greenspan family, and I did not know where all their properties were situated, so it was with surprise that 1 received instructions from Soren to take several safaris down to some ranches about thirty miles south of Graham’s family ranch at Marula. Back to the hills!

Graham entered agricultural college near Harare at the end of the war, and once he qualified there an urge to roam took him to England and then on to Australia. His parents were resident at the farm at this time, and Margie (who was Graham’s cousin and by this time my wife) and I used to visit them there occasionally. by the Chinese. It should be remembered that the Matabele, or Ndebele, are an offshoot of the Zulus. They were war-like people, and when they settled near Bulawayo in 1836 they wasted no time in plundering the Shona and Shona affiliated peoples who quickly came to fear and hate them. This tribal hatred continues to this day. When the war ended the country went to elections under the banner ‘one man, one vote’. The Shona, the overwhelming majority, won hands down. When Mugabe formed the new government, the Matabele thought that they did not receive a piece of the pie which was commensurate with the effort that they had put into the war. Trouble followed, and some of the Matabele guerrillas who had been amalgamated into the new army, deserted. These people unearthed weapons which they had hidden during the Rhodesian war, and basically they became bandits. Their efforts were not cohesive, and they carried on exactly how they had during the Rhodesian war – attacking defenceless white farmers!

If a certain party had a bone to pick with the government, and they attacked the government by ambushing police, or soldiers, or government employees, or sabotaging dams, or power lines, or bridges, I could understand it. But these people did not. They attacked and murdered defenceless, innocent citizens! And they murdered lots of them. Matabeleland lost more white farmers during “the dissident troubles” from 1983 to 1985, than it did during the whole of the eleven years of the Rhodesian war! And the new army was not trained to combat this kind of guerrilla action. They had recently been guerrillas themselves; they did not know how to effect anti-guerrilla operations, and the pillage and robberies and rape and murder went on unchecked. As it turned out, there were only ever about one hundred and twenty of these dissidents, a very small number when one considers the cataclysmic events which their actions caused.

There are more facets to all this. In African politics there always are. But I must resist trying to explain the whole confusing mess, since it is a story in itself, unrelated to our early safari beginnings and our endeavours in the Matobo.

As it turned out, this sordid chapter of dissident activity in Matabeleland.

The hunts on the Greenspan ranches went well. Soren Haagensen was not big on technicalities like adequate and comfortable camps for his clients; he operated on a shoestring, so the equipment we used was very basic. Often we stayed in the various farm managers’ houses, but this didn’t seem to bother the clients. I had learned the ropes at places like Denda and Trophy Hunters Africa at Matetsi, and this was a far cry from those operations.

However, my role was to find the game, not question the operator. I was young (twenty three) and enjoying my job, and I couldn’t have cared less if Soren wanted his clients to sleep in the open on the ground. Surprisingly, I do not remember any of those Scandinavians complaining about the accommodation or food. Maybe they were paying a really small daily rate. 1983 brought the “dissident” era. When black Rhodesians commenced guerrilla war against the white government of Ian Smith there were two main factions, separated on tribal lines. The Matabele, in the west of the country, were led by Joshua Nkomo and were trained by the Russians. The Shona, the majority tribe, from the eastern half of the country, were led by several people, the last, and most prominent, being Robert Mugabe. This faction was trained was also influenced by some kind of shady special operations group from what was still, then, white South Africa. These people were training and supporting and supplying the dissidents! Apparently they backed off (too late) when they began to tally the numbers of whites being killed by these dissidents. These bandits even murdered a group of six international tourists on the Victoria Falls road! All this in a country “at peace”!

Violent death is no stranger to people growing up in Africa. I saw it as a boy growing up in Victoria Falls (the town was attacked many times by mortars, rocket and machine-gun fire), I saw it, in obscene amounts during my two years in the army, I saw it first-hand during the dissident years when I was asked to assist in follow-up operations after white ranchers were butchered, and then, most recently, when the white farmers ( once again) were torn apart during the 2000 land take overs. I will not say that here, in Africa, you become used to seeing, and dealing with death by fellow man, but you certainly are less surprised by it than someone who has grown up in a civilised environment. But I suppose, looking at it all with the wide view, or “big picture,” it’s not that big a deal. Someone living in Beirut, or Afghanistan, or Bosnia, or Iraq, or Palestine, or Rwanda, or Sudan, would surely trade places with me in a flash. Their lot is much, much worse.

This, then, was the dissident problem. And the safari operators (admittedly there were not that many in 1983) were trying to run safaris in the thick of it! What were these clients thinking? Were they not doing their research? Maybe the daily rates were really low.

I picked up two clients from Bulawayo for what was to be our third safari into the Greenspan properties in Marula south. A friend of mine from the army was assisting me on this hunt. We packed two of Soren’s Land Cruisers with camping equipment, workers, our luggage, food, drink and fuel and headed south. I do not remember the Danish clients’ names. They were an odd pair. One fellow was short and slim while the other was big and fat.

These two travelled in the front of the vehicle driven by myself, and we arrived at the Greenspan ranch “Thornville,” at dusk, after a tiring three hour drive. We pulled in to the manger’s house and briefed him that we would be hunting there, and we asked for suggestions on where we might camp. It was dark by the time we fired up the cruisers and said our goodbyes. I had my arm and head out of the window, looking behind, as I reversed. We had not moved five yards when automatic gunfire split the night! I had not been out of the army for that long and I knew immediately what was going on! That crack and thump of fire directed at one can never be forgotten. The first few rounds came through my side window hitting the top of the steering wheel, the windscreen and the clients’ (passenger) window, which was closed. I remember the crackthump, the steering wheel jerking in my grip and something stinging my left hand (plastic from the steering wheel).

“Get out!” I screamed at the clients, opened my door leaving the car running and the lights on. I hit the ground at full speed! I knew all about this unpleasant stuff. I sprinted around the front of my Land Cruiser, across the face of the house – about twenty yards, – and around the corner, and I didn’t stop until I ran into my friend at the back of the house! “Where are the clients?” He yelled.

“I dunno, I told them to get out – they were on the side away from the gunfire, they should be okay.”

We entered the back of the house and were relieved to see the clients, unscathed, lying on the floor of the kitchen next to the farm manager. After the incident we had a good laugh at the picture that this had presented. The big fat client, flat on his belly, made a target close in size to the one offered by the short client when standing up!

The automatic fire still chattered and cracked in the front yard, and looking through the little kitchen window we saw that the cottage adjacent to the house was now on fire. Tracer rounds fired into the thatch had set it alight and it was burning brightly. The sound of the gunfire changed. They were moving away. My friend and I snuck back to my vehicle, keeping it between us and the bad guys and we unloaded two rifles with which we fired into the bush in the direction from which the attack had come. But it was over. I whistled and looked around frantically for my dog. We had purchased two bull terrier puppies when we were still in the army, and these two, now about three years old, had accompanied us on this ill-fated safari. We found both dogs inside the house, unscathed. My friend had debussed from his vehicle while it was moving, and it now stood, lights still on, jammed against the security fence which ringed the farm compound. It, too, was badly shot up.

It was absolutely amazing how little damage had resulted from this ambush. My car had myself, the two clients, one drum of fuel, luggage, groceries, one worker and my dog, inside or on top of it. The other had carried the luggage, camping equipment, three workers, a drum of fuel and the dog. Nobody was hurt, no dogs, and thankfully no fuel drums had been hit either. The vehicles had taken a pasting though, and the next day we had to cannibalise parts from one, in order to get at least one running, with which we towed the second one. The clients were badly shaken and wanted to go home. Their passports, paperwork and clothes were badly shredded by bullets. Quite frankly I don’t blame them for wanting to go. I wouldn’t have come in the first place, no matter how low the daily rate was.

One side effect of the ambush was the loss of a young, very promising tracker. Apparently he had been seen streaking past the house, straight into the security fence which had knocked him down. He came up, quick as a flash, clambered over the fence, and was never seen again by any of us. Our enquiries for him came to nought. Where he disappeared to I have no idea. We had phoned the police at Marula (about two hours away) after the attack and the next day, at about eight o’clock, an army contingent arrived. My friend and I, being ex military, were interested to see how the follow-up was going to be conducted, and we stood near the soldiers as they approached the ambush position, which was right against the security fence, next to the entrance gate. We needn’t have bothered. Weapons slung, smoking and laughing, this rabble ambled over to the spent cartridge cases and promptly wandered around sullying and damaging any and all telltale clues. It was clear that there was going to be no follow up at all. This kind of response coupled with several other factors which came to light during this dissident era, started many people saying that the government was behind a lot of these attacks. The theory went that if enough damage could be done by the “dissidents,” then the government would be justified in carrying out what was coming. And it came all right. Mugabe sent a brigade of his closest soldiers, who had been trained by the North Koreans, into Matabeleland. These were Ndebelehaters of the first order, and they were given carte blanche. The press were banned from Matabeleland, all rural shops were closed thereby cutting off food supply to the whole rural population, and the soldiers moved in. This operation was named “Gukurahundi” which in Shona means “the flood which sweeps all debris before it”. And they swept. In less than two years nearly thirty thousand Matabele men, women, and children perished. They were tortured, raped, gutted, burned, and beaten to death. In many areas the piles of dead were not allowed to be buried. They were left where they fell as a lesson. The years of Matabele predation on the Shona in the 1800’s had been avenged. Accurate accounts of this genocide can be seen in The Catholic Commission for Justice and Peace 1984 and Peter Stiff’s book Cry Zimbabwe printed by Galago Press 2000.

Years later, when confronted for the umpteenth time on the Matabeleland slayings, Mugabe shrugged. “It was a moment of madness,” he said. No apologies, nothing. Life in Africa.

Almost the same number of souls that had perished in eleven years of the Rhodesian war, were slain in Matabeleland, in two years, in peace time, by their own government.

Back to our incident. It seemed that four AK 47’s and one RPD had been used in the previous evening’s misfortunes and close to three hundred rounds had been expended. “Lucky” doesn’t even begin to describe walking away unscathed. Soren Haagensen must have been some salesman though, because the following year I bumped into these same two clients up in the Chewore camp! They had a schnapps and a good laugh over the retelling of the tale. I was tempted to remind them of the amusing tableau that the two of them had presented in the kitchen.

Soren pulled out of Zimbabwe in 1985 and I started my own company. We secured hunting leases at Kenilworth, about sixty miles north of Bulawayo, and shortly after that we moved down to the lowveld, south of West Nicholson, on the Bubye river. These were good plainsgame areas and our business grew. Our clients were satisfied, and we were, by this time, taking some leopard. When I worked for Don Price, back in 1981, we had done some hunting on a beautiful little farm called Gladstone, which was situated near Reps school, at the foot of World’s View, the koppie on top of which Rhodes was buried in the Matopos. Our quarry then had been sable. Now, in 1985, I returned to this farm and met with the new owners. We secured the hunting rights there and took some nice sable and reedbuck, and an absolute beauty of a leopard. This cat exhibited the most pronounced, clear example of what we would later dub ‘mountain-type’ colouring. I was back in the hills and it felt strange operating my own business right up against my old haunts from so long ago.

In 1987 we secured the hunting rights on Debshan, the de Beers ranch south of Shangani. De Beers is the world famous diamond mining and diamond trading company situated in Johannesburg. This was a safari operator’s dream. The open rolling plains were easy to hunt, and they were packed with game. Our business was growing steadily and our success with leopards was starting to improve.

Graham returned from his wanderings in Australia with a lovely woman named Doris whom he later married. She was a vivacious blonde who had no problem at all adjusting to, and accepting, an often-difficult life in Africa. On his return I talked Graham into taking his Provisional hunter’s exam, which he did, in the process winning the award issued to the “best” or “most accomplished” examinee on the course. Graham’s parents were still living on the family ranch at this time, so he set up a home in Bulawayo, started a landscaping and garden-maintenance business and commenced hunting for us as and when his business allowed. At this time I was spending most of the hunting season up at Matetsi safari area Unit Two, which we had leased from an African concessionaire. Graham ran most of the plainsgame hunting at Shangani as well as assisting us when we needed another hunter in the big game area. My wife stayed in Bulawayo and ran the administration and resupply for the Shangani operation.

More and more of our clients were asking for leopard and we had to start looking for new areas. Debshan gave us a quota of two per season and occasionally, when a cattle killer became a big problem, we would be allowed a third. This was not enough.

Graham and I spoke about the possibilities of hunting the leopard on his family ranch at Marula, but we dismissed that option due to the “educated” nature of the cats there. Little did we realise then how valuable and important to us that leopard population would become. We were not as experienced then as we would be a few years later, but I still look back at the failure to grasp that opportunity as poor judgement on my part. After all, the sooner we matched wits with these huge Matobo cats, the sooner we would have found ways to outfox them! Graham’s father, like his neighbours, was still trapping and poisoning cattle killers. I remember one particularly bad year in which he

accounted for five of them!

We investigated information that we received about a cattle ranch in the Mberengwa district, south of our Debshan area, that reported good numbers of leopard. This ranch was owned by the Knott family, and we enjoyed a pleasant relationship with them for about three years. We built a beautiful camp on their property. This camp was situated three quarters of the way up the biggest mountain in the western half of the country, and what a view we enjoyed from that beautiful spot. This mountain consists primarily of red ironstone, and we used these attractive rocks to build our camp. Mberengwa was a poor plainsgame area but did yield us some good leopard trophies. But it did not give us what we needed – large populations of huntable leopards. But, as so often happens, a solution to a problem is sitting right there in front of you patiently waiting to be recognised.

Ian Lennox, a freelance professional hunting friend who also lived in Bulawayo, came to visit me one day in the off-season. He and l were enjoying a few Castle lagers on the lawn and dissecting our hunting season. When I told him that we were needing more good leopard areas he asked me if I knew the Bradnicks who farmed near the Botswana border, south of Plumtree. “I know them well,” I answered. I had been at school with two of the brothers, both at Reps and at Plumtree. AJ is the same age as Graham and I, and the other brother we knew, Bruce, a year younger. One other brother, whom I barely remembered from school, was older than Bruce and AJ. “Well, I did a hunt down there last year” Ian said. “We were after leopard and plainsgame. We failed to take a leopard, but we saw plenty of leopard sign. I was only there for a week, and none of our baits had been found by a cat. You should give them a call.”

I called AJ, briefed him on our problem, and asked him what he thought. “You’re welcome to come down,” he said. “We have a lot of leopard; they kill our calves quite regularly. We’d be glad to see some of them shot.” And thus started a long successful business relationship, and a valued family friendship. The Bradnick family have always, right from the beginning, been hospitable, helpful hosts and neighbours. It has never been too late, or too early to call on them for help, and I think that they epitomise the welcoming kind of hospitality for which farmers and ranchers are so well known. Although the Bradnick properties are only about thirty miles south of the village of Plumtree, they are at “the end of the line” so to speak. There are no white farmers south of the Bradnicks. Their property borders onto communal land which stretches over a hundred miles all the way down to the Shashe river, upstream of where it joins the Limpopo, and forms the border with South Africa. This living “out on a limb” has put the Bradnick family at risk for many years. The Rhodesian war escalated in about 1973 and ended in 1980. The dissident problem ran from 1983 to 1985, and then the brutal land takeovers started in 2000. That AJ’s family have come through all this physically unscathed is surprising, and damned good luck. Of course they have lost ninety per cent of their land, so “good luck” is probably the wrong word to use, but they are physically unhurt and, at the time of writing this, are still living in their family home.

AJ’s maternal grandfather came over to Africa from Scotland in about 1910 and settled in the Port Elizabeth area in South Africa. When the First World War broke out he served in what is now Namibia, against the Germans. After the war he worked for the Meikles Group, a large department store in Bulawayo, Southern Rhodesia. AJ’s grandfather was a successful trader (Scottish blood!) and with his profits he purchased a ranch south of Plumtree.

Years later, AJ’s father, who was from the Johannesburg area in South Africa, married AJ’s mother and moved onto the family’s ranch. The family business, which was primarily a chain of general stores set up throughout the Communal Lands, thrived, and the Bradnicks expanded into the cattle business. AJ and his two brothers grew up on the ranch and at the end of the Rhodesian war the eldest brother moved to South Africa. It was not easy for young Rhodesian men who had to serve their country as conscripts in “National Service” for eighteen months after leaving school, to then go to university and get back into the “learning mode”, but many of them were able to do this. I take my hat off to them. AJ was one of these and he completed a degree in agriculture. Not only did he obtain a degree at that university, he met a beautiful blond girl there named Debbie who became his wife. AJ moved onto the family ranch expanding the cattle side of the business whilst his younger brother Bruce (a qualified diesel mechanic), ran the mechanical and maintenance side of the ranch. AJ and his wife put their soul into the ranch life and carefully put away savings in order to one day purchase their own land. It is painfully ironic that when they finally did get their own land paid for (sixteen thousand acres) it was the year before the land takeovers! They actually owned their land for one year before they lost everything! I mention this condensed background of the Bradnicks because of the significant role they played in the growth, or success of our leopard hunting business. The Bradnicks, like most rural agricultural families of the period, were, surprisingly, not really avid hunters. They shot the occasional kudu and impala for the pot and for biltong in winter, and of course they shot trapped cattle-killing leopard when they had to, but they preferred to enjoy the wildlife on their ranches for the pleasure that observing it and caring for it gave to them.

When we first started hunting there in 1989 the plainsgame was present in fair numbers. It was not in the same densities we had found on the Greenspan properties in the early 80’s, but it was there. The animals were wild because of the constant poaching from the communal lands which surrounded AJ on the north, west and south, but it was poaching that was not yet out of control. On a ten-day safari on AJ’s ranches, in 1989, we could, with a little hard work, take a leopard, a kudu, an impala, duiker, klipspringer, wildebeest and a zebra. A good bag, and a happy client. From 1989 onward, until the land takeovers in 2000, the game situation became better and better. Our activities throughout the hunting season curbed the poaching and the game trickled in from areas where they were persecuted. The plainsgame, of course, was not our focus. Leopards were our focus, and they were abundant. We wasted no time in learning their haunts and their habits and we were on hand to react to calf kills, so I think it was with some surprise that AJ received the news that we had utilised his whole leopard quota on his properties in that first year of operation. The farmers put away their traps and poison for good and we now realised that huge areas that everyone had written off as “too educated”, and “too difficult”, regarding leopards, were, in fact, rich grounds for us. We began leopard hunting with a vengeance.

We built a rough rustic camp on the banks of the Ingwezi river in the south of AJ’s property, and it was a beautiful, tranquil spot beneath giant shady acacia trees at the foot of a majestic koppie from which baboons often barked their defiance in the evenings before they settled in for the night. The other sound that always reminds me of that camp is the soothing monotonous prrrrp! of the tiny Scops Owl.

We were back in the Matobo hills, (albeit on the western edge) and the same excitement, the sense of being at the edge of some new unexplored valley, some new range of koppies or ridge, that so fired my imagination as a youngster, had me in its grip once more.

Picture an irregular square about twelve miles along each side. If you stand at the south side, the bottom side, and face north, the Ingwezi river, on your right hand, or east side, forms the boundary. Our camp sits down here, at the right hand corner. AJ’s headquarters is situated way up north, at the top of the square. On your left, or west boundary, is a strip of communal land about eight miles wide which is between our square and the Botswana border. The eastern third of the ranch consists of the huge rugged granite koppies that embody the Matobo hills. As you move west, toward Botswana, the koppies become fewer, more isolated, until finally there are none. The vegetation is mainly mopane woodland, acacia savannah, and Mangwe sourveld. Several seasonal streams and rivers wind through the ranch, and these are lined with slightly thicker riverine vegetation.

As stated previously, the north, west and southern sides of the square are communal land. On the east, on the other side of the Ingwezi river are the properties mentioned elsewhere in this book, which were once white ranchland, then ARDA land, and finally African “A2” farmers which we later formed into “The Project.” We successfully hunted leopard throughout AJ’s property, from the thick broken hills in the east all the way to the more open flat mopane to the west. These animals hunted and travelled long distances during the night and we were often surprised when cattle were killed in areas where we had assumed that leopard were absent.

Once our operation was firmly established on the Bradnick’s ranches and we began to outwit educated cats, we decided to have another look at Graham’s family ranch at the Mangwe Pass. Maybe we had been too hasty in our perfunctory half-hearted efforts there. We were taking farm leopards at the Bradnicks, only twenty miles away, why couldn’t we do the same at Mangwe?

Graham and my wife Margie, as mentioned elsewhere, are cousins. Their grandfather, one Newton Webster Whitehead, was born in South Africa, in the Eastern Cape area, in 1897. He married a woman named Lorna Plumber, who had been born in Cairo; her father was employed on the Suez Canal at the time. Grandpa Whitehead fathered no sons. They had eight daughters, the last of which was Margie’s mother Lucy. The Whiteheads were farming near Winterton in Natal when Grandpa decided to head for pastures new. Lucy Whitehead was barely three months old and Molly, Graham’s mother, was about ten years old when the family were loaded up into the old Chevy truck and turned north towards Rhodesia in 1939.

Grandpa Whitehead had been offered a job at the Matopos Research Station farm Lonsdale, about five miles away from Reps school, and this is where the family stayed until 1946 when he purchased Garth Farm at Marula. Garth Farm had belonged to a fellow called Ingram who had let the old farmhouse fall into a derelict state, but Grandpa Whitehead refurbished the place and installed the first flush toilet and first running hot water in the whole district! He purchased another three farms in the district and when Molly, Graham’s mother, married Bill Robertson, he and Granny Lorna moved into Maholi, a beautiful farm on the western boundary of Garth, and Molly and Bill took over Garth Farm.

Grandpa Whitehead was a character. He was a tall thin man with huge hands that sprang from his wrists like racquets. When I first met him in Bulawayo in 1981 he was an old fellow, bent in body but crisp in mind. He told me many captivating tales from the old days, all of which ended in hilarity and he would guffaw quietly on the veranda at the telling of them. Graham’s Dad, Bill, told me once about one of Grandpa Whitehead’s farming practices that had me in stitches but also admiration. Apparently he needed several holes made in some heavy teak railway crossties that he was using as gateposts. Whether he never had an auger or drill, or whether he was just impatient, I never found out, but he promptly held his .303 rifle to the posts and shot holes in them. Dangerous? Huh! Job done. No problem. This kind of behaviour is right up my street.

When I knew him he used to love to listen to the radio. On Sundays, in cricket season, he would dress up in his whites and with his hands folded over the top of his cane; he would sit in his chair, wispy old head cocked to one side listening intently to every ball bowled.

How I would have loved to explore the Matobo hills in Grandpa Whitehead’s day. Leopard, way back in the “old days” were a big problem with the cattle, just as they are today. In 1965 Grandpa had a calf taken on his farm Sterkfontein (Strong Fountain). When he found the carcass, he laced it liberally with arsenic and left it in the hope that the cat would return. The leopard did return and ate the poison, but arsenic is a slow killer and sign showed that the cat had entered a cave nearby. An impatient Grandpa Whitehead proceeded to light fires around the cave’s entrances in a bid to smoke the leopard out. The leopard came out and attacked one of the farm workers who fell into a crevasse. Grandpa was armed with a 12-gauge shotgun loaded with number four birdshot and he blasted the cat in its side. With no effect from the shotgun evident, the leopard went for Grandpa in a rage. He held the gun up in an attempt to ward the cat off but the stock snapped and that cat was on him.

A severe mauling followed and Grandpa was badly bitten and ripped on the shoulders, arms and back. Fortunately there were two local cur dogs there and the persistent pressure from these eventually drove the leopard off Grandpa and back into the cave, where it was found dead by local farmers the following day.

It’s hard to believe, but back in those days, 1965, the rural telephones worked! Today in “modern” Marula the phones have not worked for more than six years! One of the African staff ran to Maholi where he was able to phone Garth Farm for help. Luckily for Grandpa a unit of soldiers was carrying out training exercises on Garth at the time and these people were able to call in an army helicopter which casevaced Grandpa Whitehead to Bulawayo. There he was patched up and hospitalised for six weeks. One story I love about old Grandpa Whitehead is one involving a black mamba. He and Ernest Rosenfels were out riding one day when a black mamba reared up next to the horses. Grandpa always used to wear this great big flat-brimmed veldt hat and apparently he took it off his head and flung it at the snake in order to try to distract it while he and Ernest rode off. The hat – according to the tale – sailed over and landed directly on the mamba’s head and Ernest Rosenfels and Grandpa Whitehead made good their escape! We never could tell if Grandpa Whitehead actually expected us to believe that story.

Graham’s folks were still resident on Garth Farm when we decided to try to take a leopard there. I had made a few half-hearted attempts over the years, but I had not yet learned all the devious tricks that are necessary to outwit these leopard and we had not met with success.

I took an agent down to the ranch, and I was determined to make the first score. On about the third day of the hunt, at about ten o’clock in the morning, the trackers stopped the truck. They had seen a leopard crouched on top of a koppie about one hundred and twenty yards away. It was sitting there watching us. This fellow took a dead rest on the bonnet of the car and shot over the cat. It stood up and slunk off before we could take another. We had failed and we looked incompetent. Still no success on the Robertson ranches. Bill Robertson, Graham’s father, had purchased two more farms adjacent to Garth Farm. Garth Farm, like all the farms demarcated in this area after the Matabele Rebellion, is six thousand acres in size. With the two additions the property was now just over twelve thousand. Garth is an unusually shaped piece of land. If you took a square, and stood it on one of its points, and put your hand on the top point and pushed down, nearly flattening it, you’d be left with a laterally long, narrow shape. With Prescott and Mangwe Outspan added to the bottom, or south side of Garth, however, the Robertson properties now regained a more regular shape becoming almost square.

The old pioneers’ road cuts through the property almost through the centre, in a north-south line. The Mangwe Pass sits in the middle of the property, whilst the homestead is situated in the middle of the section which is west of the main dirt road. It is a beautiful piece of land. The Kalanka range (a giant line of fortress koppies over a thousand feet above ground level) marches in an east-west line, and its majestic crags and castle boulders can be seen from anywhere on the farm. This rugged ground harbours numerous secret caves and overhangs and we “discover” previously unknown bushman paintings there frequently.

Graham, his elder brother Ian, and his younger sister Louise were raised on this beautiful ranch, and Graham’s sons, Justin and Andrew, would have been the fourth generation to own and run it. The twelve thousand acres has, like all other white owned land in Zimbabwe, been haphazardly cut up and parcelled out in the recent land takeovers, one section going to an army officer, another going to a cluster of new villages and another is used willy-nilly by whichever important “personality of the moment” who wants to be a weekend farmer. Graham has been left with the farmhouse and three thousand acres.

Unfortunately, the beautiful granite and thatch camp which Graham and Doris had so painstakingly built on the top of a koppie east of the pass, is onthe piece of land allocated to the villages. We still utilise the camp but now I have to pay a rent to the local government offices in order to do so. Apart from the gut-wrenching blows of having your land and belongings taken away from you with no compensation at all, there is also the constant anxiety that the few remaining farmers have to live with, day in and day out, not knowing if they will be living there in a months’ time or not. The constant worry and threat is not easy to live with. It is day to day. No long-range planning can even be considered.

Graham was the first to score on his family farm with an American hunter called Ron Zielin. He took a huge male leopard on the Maholi boundary, and this was proof for us that we were doing the right thing – one hundred yard blinds and spending the whole night in the blind was working. We now had AJ’s properties and Graham’s family ranch producing big leopards. We began to build our reputation for leopard hunting and several American and European booking agents contacted us. Business was picking up. After eleven years of boarding school in the Matobo, life’s currents had swept me into the army and then into the safari business at Victoria Falls, Chewore, Nyamandhlovu, Shangani and the lowveld. But now I was back in the brooding purple hills and hidden secret valleys, and it felt like I was home.

My first bumbling efforts, back in the early eighties, came to nought. I can only think, looking back now at the first leopard I took, that it must have been absolutely desperate for food. My client and I were lying on our backs on a boulder about the size of two motorcars, about thirty yards from the bait. No hide, nothing. Just me, the client, his rifle and my flashlight. It’s hard to believe that I was that naïve about leopards. We killed that cat, and I can still remember today, 24 years later, the excitement that thrilled through me that night as I ran my hands over that beautiful silky pelt.

Built by Al Biesen to be a perfect hunting rifle, this is a .270 Winchester on an FN Deluxe action with every custom feature.  The ergonomics are superb.

This article first appeared in Shooting Times, October, 2017.

By Terry Wieland

The ideal big-game rifle combines a number of virtues:  Adequate power and accuracy are a given, but beyond that it needs to be ergonomic.  The right weight, shape, and balance for the shooter to make it an extension of his body.

A deer rifle should handle like a fine shotgun, for quick, accurate shooting at sudden, fleeting targets; a mountain rifle should be accurate, but still light enough to carry; a dangerous-game rifle should come to the shoulder in an instant, like a Purdey game gun.

Barring luck, the only way to get a rifle that fits that way is to have one made to measure, or buy a factory rifle and have it altered.  Alas, very few of today’s production rifles even come close.  They are too heavy or too awkward; the grips are too large, and most forends are more suited to target shooting than carrying in the field.

One would think, after more than a century of building hunting rifles with modern chamberings, that every factory rifle would be perfect, but cutting corners, reducing costs, and taking the easy way (as with composite stocks) have actually taken rifles in the other direction.

Most of my acquaintances look at these statements and mutter “Well, I shoot factory rifles pretty well.”  Maybe, and maybe not.  Unfortunately, most hunters today, having never handled a rifle that really fits them, and was built to be the best possible hunting rifle, have no idea what’s good and what isn’t.

You can’t appreciate the driving qualities of an Aston Martin if you’ve never driven anything but a John Deere tractor.  Another alas:  Once you have driven an Aston Martin, anything less will never quite satisfy you.

Al Biesen, Jack O’Connor’s “genius of Spokane,” was a custom gunmaker who aspired to make perfect hunting rifles.  Not works of art, or glitzy artifacts to sit in a glass case — real hunting rifles.  It was my good fortune to acquire one of his .270s last year, a rifle from the 1980s on an FN Deluxe action.  Although I’ve handled a good number of fine rifles in my life, with names like Holland & Holland and John Rigby, the Biesen was a revelation in several ways.

The grip was small compared to production rifles, and fit my hand perfectly.  Similarly, the forend is slender and slightly pear-shaped.  The checkering wraps completely around, giving as solid a grip as anyone could wish.  By today’s factory standards, the grip and forend are almost dainty.  But, combined with the weight and balance of the rifle, they cause everyone who picks it up to say “Wow!  I’ve never felt anything like this.”

The rifle is as responsive as an Aston Martin, and feels alive in your hands.

Every detail, from the custom shroud with a Model 70-style safety, to the Canjar trigger, to the cheekpiece, is fashioned with hunting utility in mind.  The walnut is lovely but not gaudy, with straight grain through the forend to ensure stability.  Overall, it has the lines of a racing yacht: Lean and efficient but beautifully fashioned.

Over the past century, some factory rifles have been produced with these qualities.  The Winchester ’92 is as good a close-range deer rifle as anyone has ever made.  The Mannlicher-Schönauer Model 1903, in 6.5×54 M-S, is an excellent mountain rifle straight from the factory, and has been used on everything from chamois to sharks to elephants.  And — a pleasant surprise — the current Winchester Model 70 Featherweight is right up there, too.  One in .270 Winchester may not match my Al Biesen, but it’s not far behind and incorporates one or two features Biesen pioneered.  Another good modern hunting rifle is the Ruger 77 Hawkeye “FTW Hunter.”

It can still be done, and you don’t need to spend a fortune to get a good hunting rifle.  You just have to know what that means, and what you want, and keep looking until you find it.

Chapter 15 of Bulletproof by Ken Moody

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We all chuckled at the remark.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An uneasy feeling tugged at my gut as we

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

Wieland on Mount Longido in 1993.

Written by Terry Wieland

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

By Brandon Justus

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By Fergus Flynn

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Three

Matobo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The People

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Mlimo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mangwe Pass

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Written by Marina Lamprecht

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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