Hunter Profile of a loyal supporter – Chuck Shellhouse

I am 75 years old and have been enjoying the outdoors my entire life. I grew up on a farm in Ohio and began hunting pheasants and whitetail deer. After college I lived out west in Arizona and Colorado and got hooked on mule deer and elk. I have hunted both in Arizona, Colorado, Wyoming, Idaho and even Canada and have taken more than a dozen bull elk.

 

On a quail hunt in Arizona, my hunting buddy and I got stranded on the wrong side of a river due to a massive flash flood on Christmas Eve. You can image the scolding I got from my wife on that trip.

 

On one of my hunting adventures to Idaho in our quest for elk, my hunting partner and I ended upside down in a creek after the steering went out on a rented van we were driving in. Fortunately no one was hurt, other than the van and we both got very nice Elk on that trip.

 

My best hunting buddy and I began our quest to Alaska searching for the next challenge. I once got stranded on a mountain top in Alaska and spent three days hunkered down in a two-man tent due to torrential rain and high winds. Once the storm past, I was able to harvest a monster moose and two large Caribou. Later hunts resulted in more moose, caribou, brown bear and wolf, along with some excellent fishing. Another heavy rainstorm stranded us on a riverbank for several days along with the Super Cub and Pilot.

After several trips to the SCI shows in Reno and Las Vegas, we were bitten by the Safari bug. I have been on three safaris to South Africa and once to Namibia. My hunting buddy, Charlie Emde, and I focused on plains game on these trips. I have been very fortunate to take 19 different species of plains game with all of them making the SCI record book. On one trip, my PH and I were tracking a wounded red hartebeest late into the evening. Following the blood trail through the thick brush lead us face to face with a Leopard no more than a few yards away. He apparently had the scent of the hartebeest and was tracking it as well. My PH told me to take the safety off my rifle and be prepared to shoot if need be. He also had this rifle trained on the big cat. Smarter minds told us to back out and come back the next morning and pick up the trail. My PH told me that we would only find the head if the leopard had made the final kill. Fortunately, we were able to pick up a trail and I made a final shot on a gold medal red hartebeest, but I’ll never forget that stare from the Leopard.

 

On another hunt in Namibia, I dropped a huge eland with my .375 at 300+ yards. When we made it to the spot where the eland had fallen, all we found was a pool of blood. Once again on this hunt it got took dark for us to safely track this animal. The PH then said we would find it the morning as long as the jackals or hyenas didn’t get there first. I am always amazed at the skills of the African trackers as the found this eland after it gone over a mile from where I had shot it. I was very lucky as the only damage was some birds at pecked out one of the eyes on my gold medal eland.

The hardest animal for me to get in Africa was the bushbuck. It took three safaris and 10 years for me to finally harvest a nice Limpopo bushbuck with 15″+ horns.

 

I hope to return to Africa as soon as my health will allow. Still recovering from the impact of Stage 4 cancer in my head/neck area and recently diagnosed with prostate cancer. Chemotherapy, Radiation and lots of physical therapy along with my strong faith in God will get me there. I hope to go after Cape buffalo and roan in the future. If anyone is looking for a great PH, look up Marco Du Plessis with Afrika Barrel and Bow Safaris who is located near Sterkriver in the northern part of the Limpopo Province of South Africa.

 

I once hunted Bison on an Indian Reservation is South Dakota, where the temperature was -20F with blowing snow. I had every bit of warm hunting clothes I had and could hardy walk. The Indian guide told me to not take my gloves off until I was ready to 

shoot… not sure who he was kidding. One shot from my .340 Weatherby Mag and the beast was down. With just me and the guide, there was no way to roll over a nearly a 2000-pound animal. But thanks to a front loader and flatbed truck we were able to get it to the skinning shed.

 

On another hunt in Alaska for brown bear, we awoke from our tent to find that a bear had torn through the side of the Piper Super Cub that we had flown in on. Quite the scary situation.

 

Much to my surprise, our guide was able to patch this plane with canvas and melted paraffin wax and eventually fly us back to Anchorage. And yes, I got a bear and a wolf on that trip.

Afton 20 years later

In August of 2002, I first visited  Afton Guesthouse in Johannesburg, SA. The place was recommended by a PH who is no longer in the industry. I was fortunate enough to stay several times during my six weeks and three-country hunt. I was able to harvest all of the Dangerous Seven.

 

Fast forward to April of 2022, some 20 years later. I was fortunate enough to stay again with my wife, daughter, son-in-law, and two clients. What a difference two decades has made.

 

Afton was, in 2002, a warm and welcoming place for someone who had never been on the African Continent before, or an old pro. It featured old, creaky wood floors and skeleton key access for each room. It offered a few curios here and there and had some recommendations for places near to safely have  dinner and cocktails.

 

Today’s Afton is a beautiful blend of those features, but brought into a more modern world. The rooms are really updated while keeping that warm and homey feel. The meals that are now available are nothing short of outstanding, and enjoying a beer or cocktail in the boma area with a fire pit and nearby swimming pool brings this place to a whole new level.

 

The trophy room allows guests to get a close-up look at a wide variety of Southern Africa’s diverse wildlife options, while the sitting room is both warm and comfortable. The entire place displays the incredible artwork of the local people, ranging from wonderfully detailed wood carvings to leather work, and even some beautiful hand-made knives with scrimshawed bone handles, all of which are available for purchase.

 

I truly enjoyed my stay 20 years ago but the new owner/management made my stay now just that much more enjoyable. The other options offered to travelers, even if they do not have the time to stay, are phenomenal. They organize an outstanding meet-and-greet service at the aircraft, which can be incredibly comforting, especially to the first-time Africa traveler. When it comes to assistance with bringing your firearm and getting the license, there simply are no words to describe how smooth they make it.

 

Just a few years ago I traveled with my wife, three daughters, and their husbands/fiancés, none of whom, other than me, had ever been to Africa before. We did not have time to stay in Johannesburg as we were catching a flight up to Victoria Falls before returning to SA for a 10-day hunt. The issue was we had extra luggage for the hunt and firearms, all of which were a problem going up to Zimbabwe. The Afton staff made arrangements for an aircraft meet, walked our group to customs, and met us again on the other side. They then took possession of our firearms and extra luggage and secured them until our return from Zimbabwe, where they again met us at the aircraft, through customs, and then assisted with getting the firearms and luggage checked for the trip down to Cape Town.

 

I cannot begin to find words that describe how fantastic Afton was 20 years ago and surely cannot put into words how it has grown into what I can only call the finest customer, hunter, and service organization in Southern Africa. I will, without question, continue to recommend Afton to all my customers or anyone needing to travel through Johannesburg, SA.

 

Afton is truly the place where “THE SAFARI BEGINS”.

Ron Hugo started A-Fox Hunting consultants. A small family-run booking agency. They book hunting and touring trips worldwide from all of North America to New Zealand and South America but they specialize in African adventures. Ron says, “No other agency will work as hard to get you exactly what you want at the best pricing.”

Campfire Thoughts & Reminiscences Part 6

Written by Neil Harmse

 

Chapter 7. Lion Problems

 

As previously mentioned, during the 1980s the southern Kruger Park boundary was continuously faced with problems caused by lions crossing. into private properties and killing livestock. Once these nomadic lions realised how easy it was to catch and feed on domestic stock, they tended to remain in the area and habitually prey on the animals. Once hunted, they realised that they were safe on the park side and would come through after dark to raid the cattle kraals or kill the livestock in the camps.

 

Sometimes these young lions tended to show ‘bloodlust’ with such easy pickings and would kill four or five animals in one attack. I realised that the only way of making contact with these killers would be by setting up a hide and waiting for them to return to their kill to feed again. They were always more suspicious when approaching a kill of a domestic animal than one of natural prey, so the hides had to be carefully sited and disguised, and movement kept to a minimum. With care, I could sometimes shoot two or three in a night. If that sounds unsporting, I must stress that it was not sport hunting at all, but an attempt to rid the area of killers causing financial loss to the farmers and the community.

 

We did try to dart, capture and then relocate some lions further into the park, as far north as the Satara area, but this did not work. Within a week or two, these same lions returned and were again killing stock. They became wary and would not return to a kill, so they then had to be followed on foot from a kill – which could be quite ‘hairy’, especially in the dark. My tracker, Petrus, was very steady in this work and could be relied upon to keep a spotlight trained on the lion, allowing me to pick a shot. For this, I used a rechargeable battery with a spotlight and red filter. Following lion at night through the bush is pretty hair-raising work and shots were normally at close range.

Magagula (left) who assisted me with a lion hunt, with Petrus (right).

I remember one time when Petrus was down with malaria and I used a substitute tracker named Magagula. I had used him on hunts before with no problems, but this tracking in the dark was new to him. I carefully explained what to do and he seemed OK with it. We picked up a group of four young male lions moving back to the park at about 11pm and were following behind at about 15m when the light was switched on and trained on them. One of them stopped and turned to look back. I raised my rifle, ready to shoot – when Magagula’s nerves failed and he suddenly switched off the spotlight. I whispered to him to switch it on again, which he did,

but he simply flicked it on and off! Believe me, it is quite daunting standing in the bush in pitch blackness with lions a few metres ahead. Fortunately, the lions ran off and made their way back to the park. We never managed to catch up with them.

 

An amusing incident occurred with Magagula a few weeks later. I was driving along the road past the cattle kraals when I noticed something lying across the road. There was Magagula, drunk as a skunk, sprawled on the road with his bicycle beside him. I stopped and, in the headlights, picked up the spoor of three or four lions along the road and all around Magagula. They had obviously seen him lying there and, out of curiosity, sniffed and smelt all around him before moving off again. Fortunately, most lions are not man-eaters by nature and I think these ones were put off by the smell of beer! In his drunken state, Magagula was completely unaware of what had happened. I loaded him into the back of my Land Rover and dropped him off at the compound. The next morning, I collected him and took him to show him the tracks around where he had been lying. I must add, however, that even this did not cure his drinking.

 

Lioin raiders.

A raider lion taken out.

Most of the lions which caused problems were young males, although occasionally a mature lion or lioness was also a culprit. On two occasions, a large cow was killed and partially eaten. Waiting at the kill brought no results: the lion did not return. From the tracks, we saw that the killer was a large, mature male which had been hunted before and was wary of returning to his kill. The third attempt on a late afternoon was foiled by a tractor driver who arrived at the kraal just as the lion was trying to get into it. The lion ran off and they radioed me to advise what had happened. When I arrived, I saw from the tracks that it was the same lion that had previously made the kills. The tracks were fresh and reasonably clear, and seemed to be heading to the river boundary of the park. Petrus suggested that we cut across and try to get ahead before the lion reached the river. We could then perhaps get a shot. So we set off at a fast pace to make up time.

 

We arrived at the section of the river bank where Petrus thought the lion would cross, but no tracks were visible. We moved back into the tree line and sat down to wait. It was not too long before Petrus pointed and indicated that he could hear the lion. I trusted his instincts, as he was seldom wrong, so I moved to get ready if I had to shoot. Sure enough, we spotted the lion moving towards us, seemingly unaware of our presence. I took careful aim at his chest as he came forward and as my shot struck him, he seemed to leap up and flip over. I gave him a second shot and he fell flat. This cattle-raider had reached the end of his career. 

Leopard stock killer.

Not long after this, the raids seemed to become fewer, with the lions apparently behaving themselves and although there were sporadic kills in other areas, I was happy to have some respite from shooting more of them.

 

I would just mention that most of my lion control work was done with a .375 H&H and although it is not a favourite calibre of mine, I found it ideal for cats such as lion and leopard. It did prove effective in having a shock effect on them and knocking them down.

To order Campfire Thoughts & Reminiscences – the complete book with illustrations, (US $15 excluding S&H) contact Andrew Meyer at andrewisikhova@icloud.com

The Night Of The Leopard

By Don Stoner

 

The Land Cruiser rolled to a stop on the rough, hard-packed ruts my PH called a road. Then, shifting into four-wheel drive, we slowly turned onto the soft white sand of the dry river bed. Five minutes later we caught the odor of the rotting bait wired to a branch overhanging the river. There were leopard tracks, and large ones at that, but the warthog bait had not been touched. The trackers began the unpleasant job of cutting the old bait down and replacing it with a fresh ham of zebra. 

 

As we left the river bed, jolting up a rocky track, we saw some bush cattle grazing through the thorn scrub. It was these cattle that had brought us to this isolated ranch deep in Africa. The ranch was owned and run by two elderly settlers in their seventies. In 1946 they had come out to this wilderness area, where they had wrestled a livelihood for fifty years. How they managed to eke a living from such a harsh land at their age was a wonder. Unfortunately, a large leopard had taken a liking to their scrawny cattle and in recent months had killed five of them.

 

This was a significant financial loss to such a small ranch. A leopard that has lost its fear of man and hunted where people worked, was bound to present a threat to humans sooner or later. As a result, the game conservation department had issued a permit to kill it, and the couple had asked for our help. I had not had plans to hunt leopard on this safari but it was hard to refuse such a request. This would be hard, potentially risky, and time-consuming work that the old gentleman couldn’t manage, but we just couldn’t refuse.

 

Over the next day we shot and placed three fresh baits in likely places. Each morning we carefully checked for any indication that the leopard had found one, but to no avail. We walked through swamps, along streambeds and through dense areas that looked like they might yield clues to the big cat’s location, but with no luck. Then, on the third morning, the old native caretaker came to tell us he had heard the cat calling as it followed a streambed during the night. He thought he knew exactly where it had been. We immediately set out to see if he was right and if we could find the spoor.

 

A small but deep stream cut through a very thickly wooded portion of the property and came from wild “protected” land into their small ranch. We had already picked this as a very likely route for the leopard to use if he came in looking for cattle. However, our bait, nicely situated on the south bank of the river, had been completely ignored. There was no easy way across the stream and, since it was inhabited by both croc and hippo, we were not inclined to wade. We thought that if the cat did walk the north bank he certainly would smell or see the bait and could, more easily than we, cross the river. I was to learn that hunting leopard, especially a cattle-killer, was not to be so easy. 

As we followed our guide, he led us right to this same stream. The big cat had apparently followed the north bank and completely ignored our inviting bait. After quite a search along the south bank we eventually found a small tree which had fallen across the river creating a shaky, slippery bridge. By reaching from limb to limb it was possible to balance on the thin trunk and shuffle across. There is nothing quite like the knowledge that the black water running under your feet is home to both crocs, and hippo. Our native tracker’s bare feet did well, but our boots gripped less surely. In addition, the branches were fairly small and, while they offered assistance balancing, were not strong enough to support our weight if we lost balance and fell. It was a shaky crossing but eventually we all, including my brave wife, made it, and on the far side we found the tracks. The leopard had coolly walked right past our bait to the backyard of the ranch house. 

We had some hard decisions to make. If we wanted this particular cat, it looked as if we would have to go onto his turf, as he wasn’t coming to ours.  Old cattle-killers are smart, well-educated. They have usually been hunted hard by ranchers and if they have survived long enough to get old, they have become very wise to the ways of man. This one was old, smart, and felt secure in the morass of vegetation on the far, inaccessible side of the river. If we were to hunt him, it would have to be in this thick riverine bush. Just to get bait across the river would be a daunting task. It would have to be carried across the tree bridge and then some distance though dense cover. And what about the proverbial “correct leopard tree”?

 

I knew that the selection of a tree in which to hang leopard bait was very important. It must have a large limb, accessible to the leopard but out of reach of lion and hyena. This limb should be in a position to allow a blind, or hide, to be built down wind and in a direction to have the setting sun behind the tree to silhouette the leopard as he comes to feed.  In this jungle we couldn’t even see fifty feet let alone find a tree with a limb that would have light behind it. We were, in fact, in a depression formed by the

Author Don Stoner.

banks of the river which, during the flood season, must get quite large. The thought of sitting in this mess to wait out a cattle-killer was less than inviting. Still, if we were going to get this one, it looked like this was what we would have to do.

 

Thoughts of Jim Corbett’s accounts of hunting man-eating leopard in India hung in the back of my mind like a dark apparition. But, if Keith, my PH, was gutsy enough to go for it, I certainly wasn’t going to back out. Finally, we picked a tree with a big branch about fifteen feet off the ground. A blind was then constructed out of branches and grass about fifty yards away. Then a tunnel had to be cut through the heavy foliage to enable us to see the bait. Thick bush surrounded the blind. The leopard would have no difficulty approaching unseen and unheard if he became suspicious of the disturbed vegetation.  This was not the way I had always heard you hunted leopard. This was his game in his ballpark and, somehow, I was beginning to feel more like the bait than the zebra quarter in the tree. Keith, however, had a reputation for success at hunting leopard, and he seemed confident.

 

I have grown up hunting in the swamps of Florida. I am used to hunting in vegetation so thick you have to push your way through, but somehow the realization that a cat big enough to kill a full-grown cow would be sharing the same tangle of vines and bushes in the black of night with nothing but branches to hide behind, is sobering. Visibility you ask? We could see perhaps three yards with a light, except for the tunnel we had cut to the bait. At this point I was beginning to question my professional hunter’s sanity, not to mention my own. Still, this was not sports hunting nor was it intended to be.  It was an attempt to kill a specific problem cat, and I had been “lucky” enough to have the opportunity to try. 

 

When all was ready, we left the dark gloom of the dense riverbed to wait in hope at this bait. The following morning was spent discussing leopard. We found an old book of leopard photographs in the camp and made a detailed examination of each picture to discuss exactly where to place a bullet for an instant kill. Keith patiently talked me through each instance. There must be no error if we were to try to take a cat in this situation. A wounded leopard in that tangle of jungle with no way to get out safely would truly be a disaster. I’m sure there could be potentially worse situations, but somehow none came to mind. 

 

I have read and been told that more hunters miss shots at leopard than any other dangerous game. This may be due to the relatively small size and quickness of the cat, or sometimes it is the poor light. But mostly, it is just nerves.  How can you miss a target at fifty yards from a rest? Either you can’t see it, or you rush the shot, or you are so nervous you jerk the trigger. This time we simply couldn’t afford a poor shot and risk a wounded leopard. Compounding the problem was that since this animal seemed to be very cautious, it suggested that it had been hunted before and, as a result, would probably take no chances. It was unlikely that it would come to the bait until it was quite dark. If true, we would probably have to use a flashlight to see well enough to shoot. I was told that I would have only a few seconds to get my shot off once the light came on. I was also told that once we were in the blind at four pm we would stay there until either full light in the morning or the leopard came. No leaving once it was dark, no matter how cold or uncomfortable. I also realized that the flashlights we were talking about were good old-fashioned Eveready – one with two cells and one with four. In this day of modern portable lights, we tend to forget just how faint a D cell flashlight with a bulb is at fifty yards. How I wished I had brought a really good light. 

Marvelous bulls, but too young to take.

The seriousness of the situation was reinforced when Keith gave me the game plan. Hydrate well in the morning but stop drinking by one pm. Nothing except the clothes I wore with no metal buttons or trim. No moving in the blind, not even to urinate. Even the ammunition was limited to reduce the risk of unwanted noise. One round in the chamber and four more in the magazine. There would be no spares in the pocket or belt loops to jingle or risk making noise. Back to the rifle range to recheck the scope and to zero it at exactly fifty yards, the distance from the blind to the bait. I began to feel the pressure. This must be both a quick and an absolutely correct shot. Keith would have a 12 ga shotgun with SSG buckshot and the two flashlights. That is all we would carry for the night. There would be two folding chairs and a wool blanket in the blind. Ever try sitting on a folding chair for twelve hours without getting up or moving? 

 

Well, dangerous game is why I came. This was no joke, no joyride, only deadly serious business. If I blew it, we would have real honest-to-goodness deep trouble. To make matters worse, not only would I create a problem for myself, but for my PH as well. More professionals are injured hunting leopard than any other of the Big Five dangerous game.  I appreciated the confidence Keith was willing to place in me.

I tried to get some sleep during the afternoon before we left the camp. In all probability I would have to be awake all night. The anticipation was too great and sleep wouldn’t come. Keith joked that he slept well in leopard blinds because he knew the client would be absolutely wide-awake listening to every sound. He was right. Somehow, I felt staying awake all night wouldn’t be too difficult.

 

Finally, we loaded our gear into the Toyota and drove to the river where the faint trail started, leading to the blind, about twenty minutes away. Our tracker went in with us to cover the entrance of the blind with branches after we were in it, and then he returned to move the vehicle away from the area. The two trackers would spend the night in the vehicle waiting until we called on the radio to return. A few last whispers were exchanged and we settled in for the wait. I noticed an uneasy feeling and a heightened awareness that I have felt before when in dangerous situations. The afternoon had been sunny, and since we were dressed warmly enough to stand the cold night, I felt damp with sweat from the exertion of walking to the blind. Nevertheless, it wasn’t long before the chill of evening began to seep through my clothes.

 

Closed in the blind, sitting in a semi-reclining position, there is nothing to watch but the sky. As the light faded I watched, through the branch of a huge tree overhead, the clouds as they drifted by. Then one by one the brilliant stars of the Southern Hemisphere began to come out. Africa is a fascinating land. In the stillness, the call of birds floated through the brush picking up tempo as the shadows lengthened. Leaves rustled and occasionally a twig cracked as unseen forms slipped by in the shadows and heavy foliage. Antelope, hyena, lion, the hippo whose tracks we had seen, or just a mongoose? It is amazing how much you can hear when everything is absolutely silent. My legs cramped, my back hurt and I would have loved to move. But movement is not an option as it would risk giving our presence away. It is just a case of mind over matter. Or, as a sergeant of mine used to put it, “I don’t mind and you don’t matter”. Years ago, while in the military serving as a sniper, I began to learn this art of sitting without movement and have refined it by many hours of practice sitting in deer and turkey blinds.

The river bed where we had to hunt this leopard.

As the sky turned to indigo, we heard a bushbuck bark three or four times. The cat was on the move. Birds called a warning and we strained to hear any sounds. Then we heard it. Four coughing grunts that could only mean leopard, and, nearby. As the curtain of darkness fell, black clouds passed overhead and the wind suddenly picked up. A storm was coming. We could hear the wind in the brush and the trees and branches began to sway. All I could think was the possibility that the wind would carry our scent to the cat and that we would be left sitting cold, wet and deaf through the night. Rain and wind cover all sounds. He could be within a few feet and we wouldn’t hear, see or smell him. The wind would even cover the sound of teeth tearing at the bait and 

the movement of the tree in the gusting wind would prevent us feeling the tug on the fishing line running from the bait to our hand. Things were not looking good. It’s Murphy ’s Law again. If anything can go wrong, it will. The wind continued, but at least no rain came. I felt frustrated and helpless. There was nothing to do but wait and hope. So near and yet so far.

 

As the night wore on and, just as I finally relaxed realizing there was nothing to do but wait it out, Keith touched my arm. He slowly moved his hand to mine so I could feel the line that was attached to the bait. Yes! It was moving. Was it just the wind? No, it also moved between gusts.

 

“Get ready. When I turn the light on, shoot.” It was a barely audible whisper. Ever so slowly I eased up into my rifle, trying not to disturb the sights carefully trained on the bait. How many times in the past have I trusted this rifle with its carefully handloaded bullets? The hours of practise will, hopefully, pay off. The light flashed on cutting through the blackness like a knife. My eyes strained to adjust to the sudden change. Yes, there was a huge leopard on the limb, but which way was it facing? All I could see were spots. Then, in a flash, I could make out eyes and a front shoulder. The crosshairs of the scope swerved to center on a rosette of spots just behind the shoulder and I touched the trigger. In the flash of the muzzle, I could see him leap.  I saw nothing else, blinded by the flash.  It had been all of five seconds, but it seemed like an eternity. Keith muttered, “I thought you would never shoot.”

 

Then the inevitable question. “How did it feel?  Did you hit him good?” Yes, I was sure of the shot, right behind the shoulder. We heard a single rustle of leaves, then a low gurgling growl and silence. Absolute silence.  We waited, all the while probing into each bush, tree and clump of grass with the dim lights. Nothing. We waited longer, both half afraid to find out the truth. Was he dead or would we find nothing but a blood trail?

 

Carefully we got out of the blind after inspecting every shrub in view. Keith took the lead with the shotgun and I followed walking backward, back-to-back, watching the rear. With one slow step at a time, it was the slowest and longest fifty yards I have ever walked. The relief was almost audible as the light fell on the beautiful spotted coat, stretched out in a bush right where it landed as it made its final leap. The open jaws displayed the long white teeth of one final snarl. So beautiful and so savage. I thought of William Blake’s poem:

 

Tyger tyger, burning bright,

In the forests of the night;

What immortal hand or eye,

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

 

Then we noticed a surprise! This was not a large male as we had thought, but rather a very large female. My next thoughts were whether she could have a mate close by. After appropriate congratulations and a little backslapping, we hoisted her to start the trek out. Keith hefted her, with my help, onto his shoulders and we both staggered about forty yards before he let her slip to the ground. Keith is big and quite strong but this cat probably weighed close to 140 pounds, and carrying that weight in the dark through roots and mud was just more than even he could do. She was far too big and we simply couldn’t carry her through that dense vegetation in the dark.  We needed help. Keith then announced that I should stay to guard my trophy and keep the hyena off while he walked out to get help.  Ah, yes!  We did try the radio but had no signal. Suddenly the four rounds I had left in my rifle seemed very inadequate. Even in the States I would hardly drive to the corner store without more ammo than that. Was he kidding me? Stand in the middle of a jungle like that in the black of night with lion, leopard, hyena and hippo around with only four bullets? Ok! So I figured out the best approach. I dragged her up against the roots of a huge tree and then sat a bit elevated, with my back against it so I could keep a lookout with the flashlight.

Lion with gemsbok kill. She didn’t like us this close and it was almost a problem.

Then came the punch line! “Doc, those batteries are about done, so better keep the light off unless you really need it because we will need it to get out.” Right! I had a good mind to tell him I would walk out and he could stay. The only problem with that idea was that I wasn’t at all sure I could find my way out. To say I was a bit tense would be an understatement, but there was really no alternative. I admit to feeling a bit uneasy as I watched him disappear into the thick foliage. It would take him at least half an hour to reach the other side of the river where we knew we had radio contact. Another half-hour for the men to get to him and then another half-hour to get back to me. So, I’m going to have a very riveting hour and a half providing they don’t get lost, and that is a distinct possibility. I really don’t like having no light. And yes, I could hear something passing nearby several times. Once when the steps seemed to stop almost in front of me and only a short distance away, I did use the light. Whatever it was scurried away quickly. I’m sure some primitive instinct gnaws at you when you are alone in the dark in a jungle. 

 

After what seemed to be an eternity, I heard voices and saw a dim light approaching. We quickly yelled to each other. Keith was back with the two trackers who were far more sure-footed and used to carrying burdens than we were. Even with help, it was a struggle to get the big cat out. Footing in the dark was treacherous. The riverbed, covered with vines and roots, was wet and slippery. At the river there were new concerns. At first, they felt sure they could balance the cat on their backs and, helping each other, get over. I felt unsure. I certainly couldn’t have made it and I have done some technical rock climbing. After a discussion, I insisted we get a length of rope and tie it to the leopard just in case. To lose such a beautiful animal in the river would have been unthinkable. Halfway across it happened. The slippery trunk combined with the extra weight proved too much and, in a frantic couple of seconds, the cat went into the river with the tracker barely hanging on to a single branch. Keith’s hat, accidently knocked off in the commotion, fell into the water and was swept past my side of the tree. I instinctively reached to grab it, but recoiled as he yelled, “Let it go. Don’t put your hand in that water.” Potential danger is never very far away in this country. After pulling the leopard out of the water onto the far bank, we finally made it back to the truck. We were tired, sweaty even in the cold, but elated. 

 

The cold night air cut through our damp clothes as we rode in the open truck. We were anxious to get back to camp and wake everyone, but we felt we must first show the rancher the cat to be sure this was the right one. If so, their anxieties should be greatly relieved. As we pulled up to the house it seemed so isolated in the cold moonlight. I could imagine many of our pioneer homes were very much like this homestead. The native foreman quickly identified the leopard as the one they had seen. The rancher and his wife were delighted when we showed it to them. She seemed particularly relieved. I believe she had felt very uneasy with this killer so close to her house. What would have happened if she had stumbled on the bold cat in the barn or her back yard? Those of us who live in civilized places simply can’t understand the intimate threat of predators, but I think our forefathers would have.   

 

Jy moet eenvoudig inkom om fees te vier,” they said in Afrikaans, inviting us to come in and celebrate. It was like stepping back in time as I went through the door. It was an experience I won’t soon forget. The joy, relief and heartfelt thanks were almost overwhelming. We all sat at a handmade, wooden kitchen table in a kitchen lit by an oil lamp that looked like a movie set for a Western. Remember, no electricity in this simple house. “You must have a drink with us to celebrate.” The old gentleman took a bottle from a shelf along with four glasses. He carefully poured three glasses with what I would call two fingers of whatever it was and then poured me a full glass. Then with a great smile, he made a toast and we all clicked glasses. As we sat and talked, or rather as Keith talked, it was easy to understand the gist of the conversation even if I couldn’t understand the words. Occasionally Keith would speak in English to explain something to me. Soon all the glasses were empty except mine. Being a near teetotaler, all I could handle of the strong stuff was about two sips. After a half-hour of visiting and really enjoying their hospitality, Keith gently nudged me and said, “Come on finish up.”

 

“Keith, I can’t drink a whole glass (about 6 oz or slightly more)!” 

Don Stoner with warthog kill.

“Come on now, don’t embarrass me. They have shown you a great kindness and it would not be proper to leave it.” With that injunction, I managed to finish it all very quickly. Remember that I had not eaten or drunk anything over the last twelve hours. We then excused ourselves to return to camp as it was about 1:00 am. Before we were in the vehicle, I knew I was drunk because I felt unsteady. The drive back to camp over the next hour was a dizzying, swirling, nauseating run. In the open vehicle with no doors and no seat belts and nothing to hold on to across rough terrain, I repeatedly had moments of fearing I would lose balance and fall out. Thank God, the cold air and the hour or so drive helped sober me. By the time we returned and woke the entire camp, I was a little more steady and not quite as queasy. After the renewed celebration and pictures, I finally collapsed into bed and deep sleep, not waking until about 8:00 am. What a night it had been! One I will never forget, but also one I felt blessed to have experienced. 

 

Over the next several months Keith checked with the little ranch to be certain no more cattle had been taken. Thankfully, we had indeed killed the right leopard and all was well. I have to say that I experienced a certain sense of pride for having helped these two old homesteaders and their little community of workers. I also felt deep appreciation for tough old folk like them who, in this day and age, were still surviving by hard work and daily risk. It was probably at least twenty miles to the next neighbor through rough country with no paved roads and no electricity. They grew most of their own food and produced beef to sell. They also supported a little community of native help who seemed to be almost like family. Most striking of all, they seemed to be happy and content with so little. How sad that we, who have so much, find so little contentment. I think that way of life may offer more than all the conveniences and wealth we have. I am thankful I had a small opportunity to experience it and possibly provide some needed help.

 

Now, more than a quarter century after the episode above, recorded as accurately as possible, I can still relive the experience and feel both the great apprehension and elation. The sounds still rustle in my ears and the feeling and smells still come to life in my mind as if they have been indelibly imprinted. As I re-read Jim Corbett’s book about hunting killer-leopards, I can relate to some of his experiences. This is what hunting and life in the wild is about. It is living to the max, experiencing the full impact of your emotions, fears and triumphs.  It is about learning how others live or have lived. We have lost so very much in our “civilized world”. I may be among the last generations that will have the opportunity to experience these things, but I pray that will not be so.

 

I hope my children or grandchildren will not be deprived of similar experiences. 

 

Classic and Contemporary African Hunting Literature

From the Veld – Recipes and Reflections from Namibia

Danene van der Westhuyzen (Tip Africa Publishing, 2020, 242 pages)
Reviewed by Ken Bailey

From the Veld is more than just another cookbook. It’s part autobiography, part photo montage and part homage to the land, the wildlife and the people of her native Namibia. Reading this book—and it must be read, it’s not intended to be skipped through as are most cookbooks— reveals more than Danene’s favorite recipes; it provides insight to her deepest thoughts about growing up, living and raising a family in “the land God made in anger” as the legend suggests.

 

Between the varied recipes, the writing is crisp and revealing, while the photos are intimate, inspiring and tempting. And as for the recipes… well let’s just say that I’ve had the pleasure of hunting with Danene and her team at Aru Game Lodges and can speak from firsthand experience that, in a country and an industry renowned for offering the highest quality of food and service, Danene and her staff take it to a whole new level. In fact, I distinctly recall, after having wiped off my chin one last time before leaving Aru, encouraging her to consider publishing a recipe book, as have, undoubtedly, many other clients.

 

Each recipe is described in the clearest practical manner, making them dead-easy to replicate at home. Where ingredients can be exchanged, she provides practical alternatives. For example, if you want to make scrambled ostrich eggs but don’t have a ready supply of ostrich eggs in your fridge, you can use 24 chicken eggs instead—who knew?

 

The recipes run the gamut from starters and snacks to salads, entrées, vegetables and desserts, each more appealing than the last. Some, like boerewors, beskuits (rusks) and African root stew, make it easy to bring the traditional flavors of Namibia into your home. Others, particularly the main courses, can be prepared using any venison or domestic meat available wherever you live—it’s the “extra” ingredients and the cooking method that take them to the five-star level.

If you’re like me and enjoy cooking and serving game as an integral part of the broader hunting experience, you likely have several wild game recipe books on your shelf. In fact, you might think you have no room and no reason to add another. Trust me, you do, and it should be From the Veld. Like the recipes offered, this a book to be savoured from start to finish, to be kept on the coffee table as often as in the kitchen.  

Get your copy here: https://fromtheveld.com

A Long, Short, Waterbuck Hunt

By Daryl Crimp

 

My Courteney boots puffed dust in the bushveld and left distinctive tracks, the solid rubber soles offering quiet tread— silent footsteps in the dirt. I’d learned the hard way that soles designed for comfort with tiny air bubbles injected in the rubber, amplify the sound of foot on grit, echo your approach, and spook prey.

 

Not that it mattered, because this particular waterbuck had the uncanny ability to hear the unheard and see the unseen and, once again, it vanished like an ace in a slick card trick. My PH Hennie and I had long since settled into a monotonous game of cat-and-mouse with this bull, and I despaired for an outcome in my favor.

 

“These big bulls,” Hennie whispered, “are super cunning – we just need to keep working this one until he makes a mistake.”

 

“Hopefully, before I die of old age,” I added.

 

We were four days into this safari, but the hunt for this particular animal had spanned three years. The area was renowned for good waterbuck sporting heavy-based horns with classic bell-shaped curves, so there was no reason for me to fixate on an individual bull, other than, sometimes it just gets personal.

Last year, I came close – oh so close – to taking this bull. 

 

I host safaris for Kiwi hunters from New Zealand and had a number of keen first time antipodeans on this hunt, including my young son Daniel. Another father and son were on the safari, so we hunted together.  This day, Rob and young Norm were after kudu, or impala, or warthog, or gemsbok… anything but waterbuck, and they had a good chance of success with two PHs and another four pairs of eyes scouting the veld.

Glassing for kudu.

Earlier in the safari, I’d spotted a good impala and asked Hennie to execute the stalk for Rob and Norm, knowing the animal was on both hunters’ wish list. Hennie is a master on the spoor and slipping through the thorns, so I was surprised when they returned an hour later empty handed.

 

It transpired that they had quickly found the feeding impala and were waiting for the ram to present for a shot, when Norm had suddenly tugged at his father’s shirt. I could just picture what happened…

 

“Dad, Dad, Dad,” he hissed while indicating to his left with bulging eyes.

“WHAAA…” Rob started but the words faltered.

 

The largest kudu bull Hennie had ever seen had stepped into the clearing, not more than five meters away, and was looking down at them almost with an air of indifference.  It was number one on Rob’s wish list, but… he just stood there gawping at it.  Hennie broke the cardinal PH rule and hissed a staccato, “shoot shoot shoot shoot shoot” to no avail.

 

“Crimpy, you could see my heart beating through my shirt – the bull was a monster!”

“I asked why he had not shot it and the response was the classic, “It was the first day of the safari and seemed too easy!”

“Well, two things are a given,” I said. “You will never see that bull again.”

“Nah,” replied Rob, “I know exactly where he lives.  What’s the second thing?”

“That bull is going to f@#* with your head!”

We never did see that kudu again! 

Crimpy enjoying fruits of baobab.

Next day, from the top of a kopje, Hennie spotted the waterbuck I wanted. Since my clients weren’t interested in this species, Daniel, Hennie, and I slipped off the rock and trotted like Bushmen out onto the veld.  The other PH, Deon, kept tabs on the bull through his binos, while Rob and Norm could watch the hunt unfold from above.

 

Hennie cut the spoor, slowed, and lit a cigarette. The hunt was on. Deon occasionally issued hand signals from above but they were superfluous because the ground whispered to Hennie. Here and there, using sign language, he indicated where the waterbuck had fed, walked, changed course and urinated. This is the drug of Africa, where time warps and you hunt in the shadow of your ancestors.

 

Hennie turned and winked at me, lifting his hand close to his face and drawing his thumb and index finger together. We were close. The air was electric. Charged with static. Then it exploded. BOOM!

 

We looked from one to the other, then back over our shoulders in disbelief. Hennie’s radio crackled.

 

“Rob’s just shot a huge waterbuck behind you,” Deon’s metallic voice punctuated the fullstop to our hunt. I was incredulous.

 

We backtracked to find Rob’s huge waterbuck, hoping that mine had not circled behind us and fallen to his shot. More excited radio chatter, as the others were eager for assessment of the bull.

Hennie finally looked down and muttered, “Well, it’s no Goliath.”

“More like a David,” I said, relieved my waterbuck was still running somewhere through the African twilight.

“Is it a monster?” Rob asked excitedly when they arrived.I was pondering a diplomatic reply, when darkness fell abruptly—as it does in the veld. Something coughed close by.

“What was that?” asked Rob.

“Leopard,” I replied. The bakkie was 300m away and that waterbuck suddenly looked enormous!

 

The following morning I was back with another set of hunters, none of whom was interested in waterbuck.  Hennie and I were hunting with Grant who had missed his dream kudu bull on the first day – big, heavy, with wide-V-shaped horns that would have stretched the tape beyond 55”. To give him credit, he was philosophical about his duff shot and proved to be a wonderful hunting companion.

 

Because waterbuck hadn’t made Grant’s shopping list, Hennie suggested I slip into hunting mode should the opportunity come.  Grant was happy with that.

After several exciting stalks on animals that were not really what we wanted, the waterbuck had risen through the ranks and was vying for top billing on Grant’s list. He suddenly wanted a good waterbuck. The safari bug had bitten.

 

Then Hennie glimpsed a good bull that he thought was the one that I had wanted, so we left Grant with Malibongwe, our tracker, beside a termite mound and snaked through the thorns.

 

We studied the waterbuck through the binoculars from 80m for twenty minutes, deliberating, until it lay down.

 

“I’ll offer it to Grant,” I finally whispered, “It’ll look magnificent on his wall.”

“Are you sure, Crimpy?  That is a massive waterbuck.”

“For sure, but I’m not motivated by the tape measure alone and that’s not my bull.”

 

I waved Grant in and got the nod. Using a low bush as a shield, Hennie stalked Grant closer and had him settled on the sticks 50m from the somnolent bull.  Hennie barked to get its attention.  He barked and barked and barked again. Africa does that to you – screws with your head. Things had been like fickle fireflies all week and now this bull was languid in the extreme. Then the waterbuck stood and presented the perfect shot…

Grant with a magnificent waterbuck bull.

As Hennie’s fingers smoothed the tape measure against a deeply rippled horn, it kept climbing and climbing – 32.5” to the tip. Grant was delighted. It was almost his seventy-second birthday, a great gift, and I was very satisfied for him, but there remained a score to settle.

 

However, my waterbuck continued to kick my butt for another two days with tantalizing glimpses, long standoffs behind thorn thickets, and tortuous stalks before disappearing as if in a sleight of hand. I suggested, ‘drop and roll’. Hennie grinned.

 

That morning we drove through the bull’s territory en route to kudu country. At my nod, Hennie dropped off the bakkie, and caught my rifle as I followed. Malibongwe kept driving until he was out of sight.

 

Hennie and I, covered in dust, crawled into the thorns. It was a short final stalk, just 80m at the end of three challenging years. The bull was staring off into the distance, oblivious of our presence. Once satisfied the bakkie had gone, the bull leisurely recommenced feeding. Its path transected the only shooting alley I had, a narrow gap in the thorns. Hennie timed it perfectly, giving a throaty cough that pulled the bull up dead center in open ground. It lifted its head, turned, and took one last look at the world…

 

I ran my hands over the beautiful, bell-shaped, heavy horns and reflected on a magnificent hunt. In the tradition of the San Bushmen, I plucked a tuft of hair from the tail and cast it to the wind to show respect to the animal and help it into the next realm.

 

The spirit of the waterbuck vanished like an ace in a slick card trick.

 

A shiver ran down my spine.

Crimpy had to mix it up to finally get the drop on this waterbuck.

Crimpy’s waterbuck; note the heavy base and deep curl.

Biography

Raised on a farm in the South Island New Zealand, Daryl has hunted since before he could remember: rabbits, then pigs, deer, wallaby and alpine tahr and chamois. From the age of 10, he had a dream to hunt Africa, to leave his footsteps on the Dark Continent. He now runs a business hosting hunters on safari in Africa – Daryl Crimp’s FOOTSTEPS ON AFRICA

darylcrimp@gmail.com

Crisis in the Cradle of Rhino Conservation

The Natal Parks Board was once upon a time one of the most effective and admired conservation organisations in the world. With its neatly dressed, disciplined and highly motivated staff, these men epitomised the popular image of the ‘Game Ranger’, and I remember as an infatuated schoolboy writing a letter to the NPB asking how I could also become one of these superheroes. I received in return a polite typed note on an NPB letterhead, suggesting that I should go and study Zoology, which indeed I did, but my career moved in a different direction after that. The Natal Parks Board with its legendary Dr Ian Player, was responsible for saving the Southern White Rhino from the brink of extinction. So successful were they that surplus animals were spread across Southern Africa and the world. Private owners acquired breeding stock, and trophy hunting ensured that rhinos were valuable and valued animals, and their numbers continued to increase. 

 

But the iconic Natal Parks Board is no more. The advent of a democratically elected government in 1994, and the replacement of the NPB and its senior staff by a new breed of South Africans, many motivated for all kinds of reasons other than a love of wildlife and a passion for conservation, has resulted in an organization that is mired in controversy, and a cradle of rhino conservation that is now a bloody killing ground. Now known as Ezemvelo KZN Wildlife, the parks under its control have been facing an unprecedented level of poaching of both the critically endangered Black Diceros bicornis and the White Ceratotherium simum Rhinos. The onslaught has been so intense that rhino once again face extinction in this once-secure corner of Africa.

 

So far this year a total of 123 rhino have been poached in the province. The rhino poaching syndicates are extremely well organised, and move their operations around the country, apparently in response to intelligence about where anti-poaching activities are slack. After mainly targeting the Kruger National Park, the rhino poachers met increasingly stern resistance from the KNP’s well-organised and fortified anti-poaching staff, equipped with sophisticated remote sensing devices, helicopters, trackers and dogs. Then followed a shift to the rhino populations in the Eastern Cape, but since 2012 the KZN parks, particularly Hluhluwe iMfolozi Park (HIP), have been targeted. Numbers have escalated since 2012 (50 killed), 2014 (100 killed), 2016 (150 killed) and 2017 (200 killed).

 

Back in 2016, a task team was commissioned by the former KZN premier, Willies Mchunu, to investigate issues around rhino poaching and related criminal activity in KZN, including the role of provincial and national government departments and bodies dealing with such matters. The team comprised representatives from the following organizations:

 

  1. Ezemvelo KZN Wildlife;
  2. South African Police Services;
  3. Directorate of Public Prosecutions;
  4. Office of the Premier;
  5. State Security Services;
  6. An international Policing Expert;
  7. A legal expert from the Ian Player Foundation.

 Curiously, the representatives of the South African Police Services and the State Security Services were withdrawn at an early stage, and no support was received from the Directorate of Public Prosecutions. This contributed to a significant delay in the remaining members finalising this report, which was delivered to the current provincial premier, Sihle Zikalala, more than two years ago. There was considerable public interest in the findings and recommendations of the task team, but its members were forced to sign non-disclosure agreements and were sworn to secrecy.

 

Eventually, in May 2022, after the Democratic Alliance had made a court application for public access to the document, Premier Zikalala released Part 1 of the report. It is a shocker, and a serious indictment of Ezemvelo and its Board and senior staff members. Too long to report on fully here, a few extracts will help convey the contents of this report.

 

The Rhino Security Manager, while based in Durban, was appointed to manage and co-ordinate all rhino poaching matters…(he) had no control or command over other resources deployed on the ground, and in particular had no authority over any staff in the Reserves.

 

We were advised that Ezemvelo has its own internal Wildlife Crime Investigation Team, however Rangers that we interviewed reported that they had no interaction with this team, and as such could not express any opinion or sense of confidence in them. This lack of co-ordination appeared to us to be a major gap in anti-poaching efforts.

 

Of particular concern is that the most qualified and experienced investigator was withdrawn from rhino crime investigations and is now based in the Ukhahlamba Region. In the light of the poaching crisis it would be common sense for the most experienced and competent investigator to be deployed where his skills would be of most benefit.

 

It was also noted with concern that due to the change of companies procured for helicopter services, experienced pilots who had an intimate knowledge of the terrain were changed for new pilots who would have to gain the necessary experience.

 

During the investigations of the Task Team it was evident that challenges in leadership and management had a direct impact on the efficacy of anti-rhino poaching activities. Poor management practices has led to a breakdown of morale in the organization, this being felt acutely by rangers on the ground who are the mainstay of anti-poaching activities within the boundaries of the various parks.

 

The CEO also indicated that the working relationship between him and the Board was poor, causing adverse consequences to the wellbeing of the organisation generally. One of the complaints of the CEO, echoed by various levels of management, was that certain Board members frequently meddled in operational activities, by becoming involved in the day to day management of the organisation and directly interfering with the work of the CEO and management.

 

A startling example of the Board exceeding its mandate was its involvement in a potential agreement between The Royal Rhino and Elephant Reserves of Southern Africa (Pty) Ltd. Effectively, this agreement would have outsourced nature conservation in the KZN reserves to the abovementioned corporation, the Board would have abdicated its statutory obligations to protect and manage protected areas within the province, to a private company with vested financial interests.

 

Other leadership challenges involved the concentration of senior staff at head office in Pietermaritzburg who would be responsible for all procurement and other major decisions.

 

It was apparent to the Task Team on its visits to the reserves that the standard of tourism facilities had dropped significantly. In the Hilltops Resort, maintenance issues on buildings were the subject of frequent complaints by international tourists.

 

Until recently the Park Manager of Hluhluwe-iMfolozi Reserve did not reside in the reserve but in fact lived in Durban some 300 km away from his area of responsibility. This anomaly was allowed to continue even though this was contrary to policy which required that the Park Manager resided in the park.

 

The previous Conservation Manager for iMfolozi Reserve, although he did have a residence in the Reserve, reportedly was seldom found to be in the reserve and spent most of his time living outside the area.

 

The Conservation Manager for Hluhluwe was reported to be often absent from his post.

 

And so it goes on and on about a provincial conservation agency in disarray, failing in its responsibilities to safeguard the biodiversity of South Africa, in accordance with the requirements as a signatory to the Convention on Biodiversity. The low morale of the men on the ground, a park manager who did not even live in his park, the general breakdown of discipline and pride: these are fertile grounds for disaffected employees who will pass on information to the poaching syndicates, sweetened by some welcome cash, perhaps? And shipping your most experienced rhino crime investigator to the Drakensberg where there are no rhinos? Just to make it a bit easier for the poaching syndicates, perhaps?

 

And the early withdrawal of representatives of the South African Police Services and the State Security Services from the Task Team? Well now, there’s a thing… could it be that the poaching syndicates are so powerful that they hold influence over both organizations? It would appear to be the case, judging from an exposé on Al Jazeera television news showing camera footage of a former Minister of State Security in apparent possession of a poached rhino horn.

 

And surely the national Minster for Forestry, Fisheries and Environment should be taking a strong interest in this festering sore in our national conservation matrix? Well, no, she seems to be very busy with her draft Climate Change Bill, which has been described as “a monstrous absurdity”.

 

With a cast of characters like this holding the future of a critical rhino population in their hands, what hope is there for their future prospects? Not much, I fear…

Dr John Ledger is a past Director of the Endangered Wildlife Trust, now a consultant, writer and teacher on the environment, energy and wildlife; he is a columnist for the African Hunting Gazette. He lives in Johannesburg, South Africa. John.Ledger@wol.co.za

On the Menu: Braaied Guineafowl Breasts Tandoori Style

Whilst tandoori ovens are in short supply, this spicy dish tastes excellent when braaied over hardwood coals. The longer the meat is left in the marinade, the greater the tenderising effect of the yogurt, and it can be overdone, with 4 hours being sufficient.

 

Ingredients

 

8 guineafowl breasts 

3 tablespoons vegetable oil

1 teaspoon ground coriander

1 teaspoon ground cumin

½ teaspoon ground turmeric

2 teaspoons cayenne pepper

1 tablespoon curry powder

2 tablespoons sweet paprika

1 cup plain yogurt

2 tablespoons lemon juice

4 minced garlic cloves

2 tablespoons minced fresh ginger

1 teaspoon salt

 

Method

 

Heat the oil in a pan over medium heat, then add the coriander, cumin, turmeric, cayenne, curry powder and paprika, stirring often, releasing the spices, until fragrant (approximately 2-3 minutes) and let it cool completely. Whisk the cooled spice-oil mixture into the yogurt, then mix in the lemon juice, garlic, salt and ginger.  Stir in the guineafowl, cover, and refrigerate for 2-4 hours.   Lightly oil the braai grid. Grill over a medium heat, and be carefull not to burn the meat, approximately 5 minutes on each side.

 

Serving Suggestions

 

Serve with a fresh salad, including cucumber, red onion, red wine vinegar, and olive oil.

Signed copies of Everyday Venison and South African Gamebird Recipes, by Leslie van der Merwe, are available from www.gamechef.co.za

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