Nov 2, 2017 | News, Wildlife Game
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]Namibia – Leading Africa in Community Wildlife Conservation
By John Ledger
In 1967 a young man of 23 took a vacation from his job on a mine, working underground deep below the dry surface of South West Africa. Through the good offices of a friend who worked in government, he was allowed to visit the Kaokoveld, a restricted ‘native reserve’ the size of Belgium, in the north west of the country, bounded by the Atlantic Ocean on the west, and on the north by the Cunene River, the border with Angola. It was an experience that changed his life, and also the destiny of wildlife conservation in this vast southern African country.
Garth Owen-Smith was astonished to find the local people and their livestock living alongside wild animals of every description, from elephants and rhinos to springbok, gemsbok and kudu. He resigned from his mining job, and set off on a bicycle to Botswana and Rhodesia, desperately looking for employment that would enable him to fulfil his dream of working with wildlife in wild places. He found none, and returned to Durban in Natal, the province of his birth. He applied to the Department of Bantu Administration and Development (BAD) and in August 1968 he reported for duty as an agricultural supervisor based in Opuwo, the dusty little administrative centre of the Kaokoveld.
He explored the vast region and learned much about the local people, the wildlife and the arrogance of the South Africans who were in charge of governing South West Africa. Originally annexed by Germany in 1882 during Europe’s ‘scramble for Africa’, South Africa was asked to invade the territory by the Supreme Allied Command at the start of World War I. In July 1915 the outnumbered German colonial forces surrendered, and a military government maintained law and order until June 1919, when Pretoria was given control through the Treaty of Versailles, consolidated in 1921 as a ‘C Mandate’ by the recently formed League of Nations. South Africa implemented its particular brand of racial segregation in the territory under its mandate, seeking to create separate areas for the different tribes of native people living in the country.
Garth clashed with his superiors over the illegal hunting of game in the Kaokoveld, and after two and a half years was transferred, without explanation, to a post with BAD in Natal (he discovered later that the real reason was that he was regarded as a ‘security risk’). He resigned from that job, went to university and did various and diverse other things, all the while dreaming of returning to the vast open spaces of the Kaokoveld.
After visiting Australia, and finding it rather boring in comparison to wild Africa, Garth managed to return to the Kaokoveld for a brief sojourn in 1973, working on an ethnobotany project for the Windhoek Museum. Then a stint in Rhodesia saw Garth managing one the Liebig’s cattle ranches, while also becoming involved in Allan Savory’s pioneering experiments on intensive grazing systems. As the war escalated in that country, and friends and colleague started to pay the supreme price, Garth was given an opportunity to return to South West Africa as an employee of the Department of Nature Conservation, initially stationed in the south of the country, before being transferred to Etosha National Park in 1980. In 1982 he resigned to join the newly-formed Namibia Wildlife Trust, with his salary guaranteed by the South African NGO, the Endangered Wildlife Trust (EWT) for at least two years. At last he had returned to his beloved Kaokoveld!
But it was depleted of its wildlife wealth by years of drought and poaching. Everyone had participated in the slaughter, including the South African military, civil servants, opportunistic hunters as well as the local people, who had been given .303 rifles and ammunition to defend themselves against the ‘freedom fighters’ of SWAPO (South West African People’s Organisation). Having lost their livestock in the drought, they killed wild animals for food. But the elephants and rhinos were often killed by the more sophisticated hunters, including military men in helicopters.
Garth was faced with turning around this dire situation, in an area of nine million hectares, with very few resources indeed. His previous contact with the local people of the Kaokoveld convinced him that their support and co-operation would be the key to conserving wildlife and restoring its numbers to their former abundance. Together with a local headman he had befriended, Joshua Kangombe, Garth came up with the idea of hiring ‘community game guards’, appointed by their own headman, to look after wildlife in their designated areas. They would get a small cash allowance and also rations sufficient for their families. Several former poachers changed their ways in return for a less risky life, with the assurance of daily meals besides! This was the start of one of the world’s most remarkable nature conservation successes.
Owen-Smith, Garth (2010). An Arid Eden. A Personal Account of Conservation in the Kaokoveld. Jonathan Ball Publishers, Jeppestown, South Africa. Soft cover, 15 x 23 cm, Colour and monochrome photographs, 610 pages.
This is Garth’s story, an excellent book that should be read by anyone interested in Africa and wild places. Today Namibia has become a top destination for hunters, who play a critical role in ensuring the success of this remarkable effort to build a rural economy on the value of wildlife. The important ingredients are all in place: the proprietorship of the animals lies with the landowners, whether private or communal. These landowners are allowed by government to use their wildlife to create wealth and improve their lives, and government also protects these landowners from those who would illegally hunt their animals.
Initially equipped with a single Land Rover, two assistants and six community game guards, the challenges that Garth faced were indeed daunting. Nonetheless, with the support of the community leaders, and a number of successful prosecutions and convictions for illegal hunting, the situation slowly turned around. However, politics again reared its ugly head, as South West Africa was still under the control of Pretoria, although nature conservation issues were handled by the Department of Nature Conservation (DNC) in Windhoek, staffed largely by South Africans. There was a conflict between the DNC and the Damara Council about the land-use of a large section of the Kaokoveld, and Garth was seen to be on the side of the local people.
The Namibia Wildlife Trust informed him that they were closing down the Community Game Guard project. The EWT agreed to fund the project until he end of 1984; but in the middle of that year, an EWT delegation was told by the DNC officials in Windhoek that they were to stop funding Garth’s salary and that of his two assistants, and that in future the rations for the game guards (paid for the EWT!) would be controlled and delivered by DNC staff. The old epithet of ‘security risk’ was implicit in the actions of those DNC officials, and they clearly saw him as a ‘trouble-maker’. The EWT Board of Management was reluctant to clash heads with government, and equally reluctantly cut off Garth’s livelihood.
After surviving for two years without a salary, a change of guard at the EWT saw the DNC challenged and Garth was once again financially supported by the EWT from April 1987. He wrote a ground-breaking article for the Trust’s magazine entitled ‘Wildlife conservation in Africa: there is another way’, which laid out his philosophy of working with local communities, not against them. With wildlife populations steadily increasing, Garth persuaded the DNC to allow some meat hunting for the local communities who had supported the conservation initiatives, and this helped to create goodwill and bolster the authority of the traditional leaders.
Another initiative of the EWT was to organize fly-in safaris to Palmwag Lodge, which Garth led, and 30 such tours resulted in around 300 people from all over the world experiencing the superb scenery and wildlife of this little-explored land. This pioneering tourism income helped to pay Garth’s salary. A number of these tourists would later become important financial supporters of the project, as well as spread the word back home, and the innovative programme of community nature conservation was beginning to gain momentum. All of this was happening against the background of a fierce military conflict in the northern part of the country and Angola, with the looming independence of South West Africa the subject of intense debate and negotiation at local and international level. On 21 March 1990, Sam Nujoma became the first president of the Republic of Namibia after SWAPO won the democratic election.
The new Minster of Wildlife Conservation and Tourism, Nico Bessinger, was a leading member of SWAPO and had been very aware of the pivotal role that Garth and his partner, Margie Jacobsohn, had played in community conservation in the Kaokoveld. He asked for their help to implement his plans to make nature conservation relevant to all Namibians. So Garth was promoted from a ‘security risk’ to ’government advisor’!
The project morphed into the a non-government organisation called Integrated Rural Development and Nature Conservation (IRDNC), which spread its wings further afield into East and West Caprivi. Major international donors now moved in after independence with significant funding, including WWF, USAID and LIFE (Living in a Finite Environment), a contract between the governments of the USA and Namibia. The EWT did not have the financial muscle of these global big-hitters to play a further role, and moved on to support some community conservation initiatives in war-torn Mozambique.
The final step in this historical process was the creation of ‘communal conservancies’. Under the old South African regime, trophy hunting and game farming on freehold land was already established as a viable economic land-use option based on wildlife. The challenge was how to extend this to communally-owned land? In 1996 the Nature Conservation Amendment Act was passed into law. It made provision for rural communities to register ‘conservancies’ and have ownership as well as management and use rights of the wildlife on their land.
There were many difficulties and obstructions to overcome, but in June 1998, the first four conservancies were legally gazetted and registered. President Sam Nujoma received the WWF-US’s prestigious ‘Gift to the Earth’ Award on behalf of Namibia – but there were certainly many other unsung heroes responsible for this remarkable achievement!
In the nearly twenty years since then, the progress has been astonishing. Interested readers should go straight to www.nacso.org.na for further interesting details. NACSO is the acronym for the Namibian Association of CBNRM Support Organisations. There are now 83 registered conservancies, covering 163, 017 square kilometers of land, and benefiting some 190,000 people. NACSO comprises funding partners, hunting partners and tourism partners. The Namibian government firmly supports sustainable wildlife utilisation and trophy hunting. Namibia’s wildlife is flourishing, while that of many African countries is in decline (as is the case in Angola, Namibia’s northern neighbour).
While many individuals and organisations have helped to fashion this exemplary state of affairs, the role played by the young man who fell in love with the people and wildlife of Namibia fifty years ago deserves much more than a special mention. Thank you, Garth Owen-Smith!
North of the Cunene, wildlife is under siege
Huntley, Brian J. (2017). Wildlife at War in Angola. The Rise and Fall of an African Eden. Protea Book House, Pretoria (www.proteaboekhuis.com). Soft cover, 17 x 21 cm, colour and monochrome photos, 432 pp.
Angola was one of Africa’s last great wildernesses. Gorillas and chimpanzees shared the pristine rainforests of Cabinda, giant sable antelope roamed the miombo woodlands of Luando, and the enigmatic Welwitschia mirabilis crowded the plains of the Namib. But war, intrigues, and arrogance have resulted in the loss and near extinction of most of Angola’s formerly abundant wildlife and the decay and erosion of a once endless Eden.
In this brand-new book, Brian Huntley lifts the lid on Angola’s tragic destruction of its wildlife and protected areas, writing that “The national parks in Angola are in a chaotic and critical state – a situation that must be recognised for what it is, and widely publicised both within the country and globally”.
While Huntley is optimistic that the situation can be turned around, and he gives a number of recommendations as to what should be done, he also comments: “But evidence-based criticism is not popular in Angola. I have been warned not to return to Angola in the wake of this book’s publication.”
Dr John Ledger is an independent consultant and writer on energy and environmental issues, based in Johannesburg, South Africa.
John.Ledger@wol.co.za
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Oct 31, 2017 | Hunting Stories
By Ken Bailey
Kudu were not on my “want” list. But they invariably become part of conversation whenever you’re in kudu country, for these regal spiral-horned antelope have a way of capturing the imagination like few others. And so it was, that Aru Game Lodge’s PH Stephan Joubert and I talked kudu as we sat high on a hill glassing the vast bushveld below, while searching the thorn bush for eland!
The truth is that I had no intention of shooting a kudu. Having taken a respectable bull on a hunt years earlier in South Africa, on this Namibian hunt I was focused on the kudu’s big brother, the eland. (Also high on my list were springbok, steenbok and caracal – the ubiquitous lynx-like cat found across much of Africa, although given how few caracals I’ve seen over several safaris, I am not convinced that they’re as widely distributed as the range maps suggest.)
The icons of hunting writing that popularized kudu wrote about their experiences in East Africa, largely in what is now Tanzania. Perhaps it was Hemingway’s Green Hills of Africa that jump-started the kudu mystique, or maybe it was Jack O’Connor’s assertion that the kudu was the Dark Continent’s top trophy, and his coining of the term “the grey ghost” that inspired all those who followed in his footsteps. At that time, kudu were decidedly uncommon, undoubtedly contributing to their reputation as a trophy in high demand. Today, however, kudu are thriving, particularly in South Africa, Namibia and Zimbabwe.
From our hilltop vista, Stephan and I carefully and methodically identified a great diversity and abundance of game. A mixed herd of zebra and blue wildebeest, two separate groups of gemsbok, clusters of red hartebeest, numerous springbok and a sprinkling of warthogs, ostriches, waterbuck and steenbok. But – no eland. So, we settled back more firmly against the rocks and began to sweep the landscape all over again.
Ten minutes later, in the typically understated manner of all African PHs, Stephan leaned over and said, casually, “There’s a pretty decent kudu bull down there. He only has a horn and a half, but the intact side looks pretty good. Maybe 55 inches. Are you interested?”
Decision time. I’d arrived with little interest in taking a kudu, but 55-inch bulls don’t grow on trees, especially in this part of Namibia where kudu, especially the bulls, had been hit hard by an epizootic outbreak of rabies, and the population was only then beginning to rebound. However, this was a one-horned kudu, irrespective of the length. Not generally a trophy animal.
“Let me give it some thought,” and we both settled back to continue glassing.
The whole notion of what constitutes a trophy has been undergoing a metamorphosis in recent years. In an effort to ensure that hunters are targeting only the oldest animals as a means to help ensure the health and sustainability of populations, there have been numerous biological and social initiatives aimed at educating hunters and the professional hunting community alike. In 2006, sponsored in part by Conservation Force and the Dallas Safari Club, a paper on ageing lions was released describing how various traits, including facial pigmentation, could be used to select older, post-breeding animals. A few years ago, and championed by noted veterinarian, author and PH Kevin Robertson, the importance of selecting past-their-prime Cape buffalo bulls was reinforced. Hunters were encouraged to choose the oldest and ugliest bulls. Today, what should count is age, not size.
I considered this as I continued to scan the Namibian veld, returning repeatedly to scrutinize the lone kudu bull browsing in the camel thorn. He was alone, not a herd bull, as one might expect of a breeding-aged animal. Given the length of his one intact horn, he had some years on his hooves. He definitely appeared old.
I pondered my own hunting ethics together with where the hunting community is headed in defining trophy quality.
“Let’s do it.” Without another word the two of us, along with our two trackers and Stephan’s constant companion, a friendly Rhodesian Ridgeback, made our way down the little mountain.
Height is a strategic advantage in pinpointing game. By the time we’d made it down and onto the flat veld, we found our perspective had disappeared with the altitude. We were now staring at a sea of thorn bush and although we’d identified a landmark or two, it was difficult to know exactly where the bull had wandered out of our sight.
Stephan sent one of the trackers up a fortuitously positioned windmill to see if he could spot the bull. Five minutes after scaling the rickety structure the tracker signaled that he’d spied our kudu. After scrambling down he excitedly relayed its location – only a few hundred yards distant among the scrub. A quick confab between the three of us to discuss tactics, and we were on the hunt.
From the direction we knew the bull to be heading, Stephan guessed that it was feeding towards a watering hole, so we set out on a trajectory that would intercept the bull along his path. Keeping the wind in our faces, we hunched over and began quickly duck-walking, always wary of the needle-sharp spines of the camel thorn and black thorn trees along the path. Eventually Stephan and the trackers got right down into a catcher’s-stance waddle. Too many years of basketball has left me with knees that have all the flexibility of rebar, so I was on my hands and knees, scurrying along behind as best as I could.
A hand raised is the universal sign that game has been spotted – at Stephan’s signal we all froze. Staring intently to where he pointed, I eventually made out the bull moving slowly through the dense cover, feeding as he went. He was headed toward a clearing, and I got into position to be ready for when he stepped out.
Breaking into the open, the bull did as he was hard-wired to do – stopping to check that the coast was clear. That hesitation was all I needed, and at the shot he was down in his tracks.
It’s always a bittersweet moment when you first approach a downed animal, and that feeling was only amplified when we realized what an ancient warrior this kudu truly was. In many places his hair was abnormally thin or worn away, and he had obvious cataracts in both eyes. His “good” horn was broken, battered and splintered, and stretched the tape to just shy of 54 inches. The wear on the stub side made it obvious he’d been handicapped for quite some time, likely from having performed double duty, given that the other horn was little more than an 18-inch remnant.
Stephan estimated the bull to be 13 years old, well past his prime and considerably older than the eight- and nine-year-old bulls that are typically taken. With his poor overall health and impairments, it was unlikely he’d have lived another season – more probably destined to become dinner for one of the local leopards.
Despite folks having asked several times why I’d willingly shoot a kudu with only one horn, when I look back on this hunt, it’s without a smidgen of hunter’s remorse. In fact, it is just the opposite. Among the many animals I’ve been fortunate to take over the years, this bull is among those I’m most proud of.
Rather than only evaluating physical attributes, age should be an important consideration when defining what constitutes a trophy. My one-horned kudu more than meets trophy standards by any measurement.
Biography
Ken Bailey is an outdoors writer from Canada. When not hunting big game or birds, or fly-fishing, he’s writing about his experiences. And when the bills need to be paid, he is a consultant in the wildlife conservation industry.
Oct 30, 2017 | Hunting Stories Online, News
By Ray Cox
To leave footprints in the ancient homeland is a privilege, and earning its bounty comes with three possibilities: a great deal of gratitude, being humbled, or both.
“Did you hear that?” exclaimed my son, Sean, from across the pitch-black chalet. “Yeah,” I said, speculating wishfully. “Sounds like it’s a couple of miles away.” It was 2.30 a.m., our first night in the Zambezi Region (the Caprivi Strip) camp. After a few minutes the lions roared again. Our senses now quite alert, we lay quietly, eventually drifting off to sleep until the generator rallied us around 5 a.m. For much of my 60 years, Africa had resonated within me. Deeply embedded instincts drove a desire to return to the ancestral common ground. That night, we were welcomed home.
We were on a 15-day dangerous- and plains-game safari with Omujeve Hunting Safaris. Eighteen months earlier, I had found Omujeve in AHG’s “Visited and Verified”, the African Visited Outfitter verification program.
“What are your priorities?” PH Steyn asked, while loading the bakkie that first morning.
“Cape buffalo with distinctive bosses is more important than spread,” I replied, and added, “Kudu over 50 inches, eland, gemsbok, and other plains game – let’s hope for good specimens.”
Smiling broadly Phillip said, “Let’s get on with it.” We climbed into the cab. The others rode in the open back of the bakkie – Sean, who was handling game-spotter/photographer/videographer duties, Foster the Mashi Conservancy Game Ranger, and Tracker Chris. Thirty minutes later at Bwabwata National Park along the Angola border, Park Ranger Carl joined the group, and the hunt was underway.
Within four hours, we saw several buffalo, had an unsuccessful stalk, and encountered tsessebe, lechwe, impala, sable, and roan, none of which were on license. That afternoon, Phillip was reassigned to another party that arrived earlier than planned, and Jacobus Wasserfall was now my PH. Over the next few days buffalo were scarce, but we had quite a few stalks for kudu, usually groups of two to five. There were no shot opportunities, just brief glimpses of bodies and heads before they vanished. We were thrilled nonetheless as several stalks involved kudu in the 52-55″ neighborhood, and one upwards to 60″. The biggest of the “Grey Ghosts” are equally as smart as they are endowed.
We searched the park and the neighboring conservancy for buffalo, and stalked the elusive kudu, but saw no eland, gemsbok, or other animals on quota.
We relocated to nearby Nkasa Rupara National Park, bordering Botswana. A brilliant sunrise cast long shadows on the misted landscape. Lagoons surrounded by expansive islands of grasses and woody vegetation considerably improved visibility, compared with the dense tree and shrub savanna of Bwabwata and Mashi, and increased game sightings.
A Park Ranger navigated our vehicle through the savannah, and within an hour, a mile distant, we spotted a herd of more than 100 buffalo. Abandoning the bakkie, we used the many islands of vegetation to close the range. Jacobus diligently studied the herd, found a mature bull, and plotted our approach relative to the wind. Despite having ample firepower, a Winchester Model 70 Safari Express in .416 Rem. Mag., I wanted to stalk in close. Jacobus selected a buff. It was between 65-70 yards from where I shot. The buffalo ran, and a second Hornady 400-grain bullet stopped him near a thicket. Three more shots up close produced a death bellow. Its very large bosses, with horns spread 43″ in near-perfect curls, made for a very happy hunting party. To touch those horns realised the fulfilment of a Cape buffalo dream.
We traveled to Omujeve’s main camp in central Namibia, entirely different from the Zambezi Region. Vistas were extraordinary, with unobstructed views toward the horizon in every direction. The veld, stark yet beautiful, was mostly plains and undulating hills punctuated by occasional kopjes. Shots could be 300 yards or more, yet despite the extraordinary visibility, finding game was suitably challenging.
Though kudu remained a primary objective, plains-game PH Jean Cilliers seized opportunities to take the other game on my list. Near dusk on the first afternoon, a blue wildebeest presented broadside at 240 yards. Shooting off sticks from a sitting position, my Sako Hunter V in .338 Win Mag using Federal 250-grain Nosler Partition bullets put him down within yards of where he stood.
Meanwhile, my wife Denise had arrived in camp that afternoon after multi-day tours in South Africa and Namibia, just in time to keep me company as the next day Sean was heading home. Over sundowners, we shared safari and tour stories.
The following morning as we returned to camp for lunch, a warthog darted up a fairly open hillside at 100 yards. I quickly uncased the stowed Sako, and a single shot turned him into leopard bait.
During numerous stalks on gemsbok we would come across zebra or waterbuck, but Jean would say, “We can always circle back for them.” Thus it was that we took a 28″ waterbuck. We had spotted him standing, elegant and stately, under shade on the edge of a dry riverbed about 600 yards away. The gemsbok had eluded us, so we made our way back toward the waterbuck. Our approach was cautious for a typically wary quarry, as we weaved undetected through the thorn bush. At 166 yards, the shoulder shot sent him stumbling in our direction. He stopped, facing us at 50 yards where another shot dispatched him.
The following morning, we headed out for eland. After working three sides of a broad hilltop, we sat quietly. The wait was brief. We heard the telltale clicking of eland hooves, followed by movement in the bush. As silently as possible, Jean and I tried intercepting them, but we soon realized that they were gaining distance on us. We went back to the bakkie, headed down the two-track about a mile, stopping just below a ridge that offered an advantage in spotting the eland.
As we reached the hilltop, instead of an eland, a gemsbok appeared on the opposite hillside. Jean had me on the sticks, when suddenly in the valley below us a group of gemsbok ran through, spooking the subject in the crosshairs. The herd moved off and there in the exact spot where the spooked gemsbok had stood on the opposite hillside was another, even more impressive specimen. At 288 yards, the gemsbok bull folded at the shot. His beautiful, prime-condition horns measured 37.5 inches.
Still eager to intercept the eland, we drove a few miles, Jean saying that they cover ground quickly. Leaving the bakkie and our new tracker, Hafani, behind, we double-timed it to a broad, flat depression completely surrounded by hills. Jean said that he was familiar with this area, suspecting that here the eland would take a mid-day rest. Dense ground cover provided concealment as we entered and slowly made our way through the depression. Suddenly, a group of eland appeared and a large male stopped broadside 160 yards away, but a dense thorn thicket blocked any clear path for a shot. Jean waved me into the thicket. I balked at first, thinking he was crazy, but he insisted, indicating that we had precious little time to get set and shoot. From a low sitting position on sticks, I found space through the thorns, and put a .338 round through the shoulder. The eland staggered forward and piled up on the edge of another thorn thicket. The bull had a thick tuft of tawny blond hair in front of his 36.5” horns.
Over lunch at camp, Denise suddenly announced that she would join me that afternoon. Not only was this her first safari, it was the first time she had accompanied me hunting. I was thrilled!
Common springbok, on license, were hard to find, and we were fortunate to spot a herd bedded about 500 yards away. Jean and I snaked our way through some thick cover, where he positioned the sticks at 175 yards and whistled. The nicest buck stood up, but my shot was high, kicking up dust behind him. Off they ran, the last springbok we saw on the safari. Disappointing, but that’s hunting.
An unpredictable wind picked up that afternoon and we decided to return to camp a little early. On the way, we scattered a large herd of Burchell’s zebra. They in turn spooked a small group of Hartmann’s mountain zebra. We drove forward to a high plateau, left the bakkie and made to a vantage point. At first, the Hartmann’s were moving away, but the swirling winds carried our scent, reversing their retreat. The zebra came up the opposite side of the plateau, and at 150 yards, the stallion halted, staring at me. He was jittery, and as he turned broadside my shot was good. Denise was able to see it all – her introduction to the wonderful world of safari!
The last day arrived, the priority kudu. Jean took us quite a distance from camp and brought Hunter along, a Jack Russell terrier. Hiking up the first hill that morning, we spotted a kudu across a ravine, a bull Jean estimated in the mid-50″ range. I settled on the sticks, pausing to catch my breath for the certainty of the 250-yard shot.
“Shoot quickly, the kudu won’t stand there for long,” Jean urged. At the shot, the kudu dropped hard. Suddenly it jumped up, running. Re-engaging, I sent two more shots without effect as it disappeared over the hill. I’d forgotten the advice I’d read from PH Tony Tomkinson about kudu. “Reload and keep your sights on him. Remember, the ones that go straight down are often the ones that get straight up again and bugger off for good!”
On the hilltop, Jean, Hafani, and I spread out looking for blood. After 20 minutes, we found bright-red drops, and optimistically followed the trail. Suddenly, Hunter started barking.
“What’s going on?” I yelled. “Hunter kicked out a rabbit,” said Jean. Seconds later, a massive kudu, with magnificent, long, deep, spiraled horns, bounded through the bush about 25 yards away. By the time I shouldered the Sako, he’d gone.
We followed the blood trail for over two miles. The kudu was never visible, but we knew he was aware of us. He would stop, watching his backtrack, and a denser blood splatter would form. The ground was only slightly hilly, but strewn with loose, ankle-twisting rocks, preventing Hunter and us from gaining speed to close the gap for one more shot. Sadly, the blood-trail crossed over an adjoining property fence line.
I imagine that kudu from time to time, browsing on the hillsides, a scar on his flank where a bullet had annoyed him one day.
A Namibian safari offers much opportunity, and regardless of inches of horn, you are ever-grateful when trophies are earned. Jean explained that animals sometimes “shock drop” to non-lethal wounds. Remember PH Tomkinson’s words. You take what is offered, if you earn it.
I’ll heed Africa’s call again, entrusting a “Visited and Verified” outfitter.
And that first night back will be like a welcome
Oct 27, 2017 | News, Yester Year
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Volker Grellman Early
Since the 1930s, the SWA Jaeger Verein was founded to organise and control the local sport hunters who could also be classified as local trophy hunters. The hunting times were limited to the same as the meat-hunting season, being June and July of every year. In that time also, the South African biltong hunters flocked in numbers into the country.
It was not until the late 50s and early 60s that some international hunters showed interest in collecting trophies in Namibia. Among the first was Elgin Gates, a famous hunter from the US. He had contacted Basie Maartens, requesting possibilities to hunt some “desert” species. Since 1959, a clause in the Ordinance no. 18 of 1958 stated that the administrator was allowed to give permission to VIP visitors to also hunt during the non-hunting season.
In these years, Kenya and Tanzania were still fully operational with safari hunting, which only made it possible for Namibia to play a role after the closure of Kenya. The East African Professional Hunters chose to move to Botswana, not only because of the language, but also because Botswana had open concessions with big game to offer. Apart from the local languages, in the then South West Africa (former German colony), German and Afrikaans were mainly used, and the country lacked big-game hunting possibilities.
In the early years, game on the SWA farms was considered a liability and definitely not an asset. The rural farming community was still fairly poor because of the constantly occurring droughts, where food and water shortages were rather the rule than the exception. Any additional mouth to feed was a burden and loss to the cattle breeders. Newspaper adverts by someone selling a farm stated, “Good cattle farm for sale – guaranteed no game.” Furthermore, the game belonged to the state and was only allowed to be hunted in June/July for biltong or own-use purposes. That was no incentive for the cattle or small-stock farmers to keep game or large numbers of grazers and browsers on their property.
In the late 60s, the Jaeger Verein and some visionaries assisted the Nature Conservation Agency to influence and adapt the law so that the landowner in future should also be the owner of some huntable game species and huntable game birds, and be able to utilize them in the best way possible. This brought about dramatic change.
In 1970, we started a small conservation/hunting organisation (ANVO Safaris). This grew with time to such a size that at a general meeting of that organisation, we could establish in 1974 the first Professional Hunting Organisation, which later was renamed NAPHA after the independence of Namibia in 1990. There were no laws or regulations controlling the “profession” at that time. In 1975, the Ordinance on Nature Conservation No. 4/1975 was proclaimed. Then, immediately following that, the early visionaries jumped into action to build up the regulations on trophy hunting and, under the leadership of Nature Conservator Mr Stoffel Roche, these regulations – No. 240/1976 – became official in 1976. While going through the old files, for the first time we found words like, “wise use of natural resources”, “sustainable utilisation”, “the importance of biodiversity”, etc., in the discussions among conservators and in the hunting community.
Because we only fixed the terms in the Laws and Regulations after 1976, we had no terminology fixed for Professional Hunters or Hunting Guides. Anybody involved in guiding hunters in the country considered themselves Safari or Hunting Operators. The first guide in this country who comes to mind was Basie Maartens. Basie was 10 years my senior – I would therefore probably fall into the second generation of PHs, together with Paul Klotsch (mainly Botswana), and some others who did it part time.
If we look at the game that was available for the early trophy hunters – it was kudu, oryx, hartebeest, springbok and warthog. Later, it included protected species like steenbok, duiker, Hartmann’s zebra, eland and wildebeest. Only in 1991, were dik-dik and klipspringer allowed, after careful scrutiny of population numbers.
In the very early years, the Department of Nature Conservation was heavily opposed to trophy hunting, but as game populations grew, attitudes changed, and today we probably have the closest working relationship imaginable. Animals in the big-game category were only allowed in the late 70s in my big game concession in Damaraland, where our clients hunted lions, leopards and elephants (later dubbed “Desert Elephants”). The last trophy bull, named “Skeur Oor” hunted by us in 1983, also drew the first anti-hunting organisations into the picture. Although we had a quota of black rhino, we voluntarily did not utilize any as we did not have any scientific evaluation of their status.
Big-game concessions became possible after 1988 in Bushmanland for really heavy old ivory carriers – also in the Caprivi (now Zambezi Region), East and West. After Independence in 1990, all the communal areas in the North-West and North-East were given concession rights on established limited quotas for elephant, buffalo, hippo, crocodile, lion and leopard.
Trophy prices in 1975 were:
Kudu – R125;
Oryx – R100;
Springbok and warthog – R40;
Mountain zebra – R180;
Ostrich – R50.
Daily rates 1×1 were R48 per day, and R18 for observers. A three-course lunch at a better hotel cost R2.20. The first Land Cruiser we bought out of the box cost R3 500 – can you believe it!
(Today’s exchange rate is plus or minus R13.30 = $1)
PLEASE GET A PICTURE OF THE EARLY LAND CRUISERS FROM TOYOTA
One of the greater challenges that we experienced in the earlier days was to convince the Nature Conservation authority that selective trophy hunting, when done properly and through targeting over-mature male animals, could be beneficial to the species and, through the trophy fees, beneficial to the landowners. Another great challenge was to influence legislation to change and make international trophy hunters feel more welcome to visit this country, as well as needing to market the country as a hunting destination, and find the clients to assist in this program.
The main success for trophy hunting in Namibia is that it started from virtually nothing and developed into a well-established “industry” that is very popular. The game nowadays is treated with respect, and trophy hunting practices are on an absolute professional level. Game numbers have increased to their highest level ever and are gradually pushing domestic animals off their former primary position. Game is definitely not a liability anymore, but rather one of the greatest assets to landowners, conservationists, and tourism in general. Now Namibia can offer some of the best hunting in Africa, not only on plains but also on big game.
As with everything in life, change happens. The wildlife industry in Namibia developed quite steadily and sustainably. But, as always, where money is involved, excesses can be expected, especially on some farms that have developed in recent years to get involved with breeding programs that were imported from South Africa. Luckily, those practices were not allowed. For instance, no predator breeding is allowed at all. Breeding of color variants reared its head, but presently seems to be fading.
Many large portions of land were converted to wildlife ranches with just one outside game-proof border fence and no internal fences. Hunting offered there is also done on fair-chase rules. Wildlife ranches are normally without any cattle or domestic animals, and have introduced African species on condition that they find a suitable habitat on such lands. Otjiwa, 10 000 hectares in extent, was the first one to be established in 1969. From early times on, virtually all trophy hunting took place on cattle farms that also hosted good populations of wildlife species. Such farms are still the mainstay of trophy hunting in Namibia. Legally, they have to be registered as hunting farms, and the persons guiding hunting clients should be registered as Hunting Guides. ***
Presently, after 42 years, Namibia Nature Conservation authority is finalising the Protected Areas and Wildlife Management Act that will replace the Ordinance of 1975. Also, the regulations on trophy hunting will be updated, Additionally, we at NAPHA are presently working on a new, all-encompassing Code of Conduct which could become the National Code.
Yes, we are very proud of having achieved the highest ranking of good standing in hunting standards and levels of hunting ethics. This was possible through good leadership and the doings of many passionate landowners and hunting professionals. That includes the dedicated Nature Conservation Officials.
After 42 years, we all feel it is time to adapt to more modern conditions, though without discarding the old trusted and proven good portions of the former Act. For the first time, Namibia envisages having a Council of Professional Hunting (Statutory Body). A two-decade-long dream becomes reality!
Looking at the present situation, one has to get the impression that all the role-players in hunting in Namibia will be able to meet the future with full optimism, even with droughts, anti-hunting pressure and climate change. Everybody seems to be prepared and better trained and educated to face the challenges. One of the main aims for the short-term future would be to improve the image of hunting in general, as well as trophy hunting in particular. We might even have to change the terminology of some debatable definitions.
Regards,Volker
(Mr) Volker Grellmann
ERPHAN
NAPHA Ombudsman
Cell: 081-124-4848
e-mail: vgrellmann@afol.com.na
P.O. Box 90161, Whk
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Oct 23, 2017 | Bowhunting, Hunting News, News
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]“Virus Africanus”… Springbok and Dassie Bowhunting
by Frank Berbuir
I was back in the Dark Continent – and back in Namibia – thanks to the “Virus Africanus”.
This time I bowhunted during April down in the south of Namibia near the village of Maltahöhe close to the Swartrand escarpment, about 110 km west of Mariental in the Hardap Region. Mariental used to be a center for karakul sheep farming, but this branch of agriculture has been shrinking. After the end of the German colonial era in South West Africa the settlement became a small hub for tourism, serving as a gateway to popular destinations like Sossusvlei, Solitaire, Sesriem, and Duwisib Castle.
The hunting areas and farms in the south of Namibia are all very large – the one where I hunted was 20,000 hectares. Christian Otto, PH and owner of Kachauchab Farm, picked us up at the Windhoek airport and during the approximately 300 km drive southwards I enjoyed the diversified landscape as I settled in to be back in Africa again.
On this trip I was specifically after springbok, this medium-sized slender antelope with long legs and neck, which is mainly found in the dry areas in southern and southwestern Africa. Its common name comes from the Afrikaans words spring (jump) and bok (antelope or goat). It was first described by the German zoologist Eberhard August Wilhelm von Zimmermann in 1780. The scientific name, Antidorcas marsupialis is interesting: anti is Greek for “opposite”, and dorcas for “gazelle” – stating that the animal is not a gazelle. Marsupialis comes from the Latin marsupium (pocket), which refers to a pocket-like skin flap that extends along the midline of the back from the tail. In fact, it is this physical feature that distinguishes the springbok from true gazelles.
Immediately after our arrival and welcome at Kachauchab we wanted to go out for the afternoon hunt.
I dressed into my Sniper Africa camouflage and headed out in the old bakkie to the area of a fixed blind.
Due to the rough territory and open veld, stalking was not an opportunity on this species, so we decided to hunt from two available blinds that had been set up the year before.
We parked the car behind a bush and walked the last kilometre. After we settled in and enjoyed the warmth of the afternoon sun, some small warthogs and different birds visited us. Nothing else came, but we took pleasure in watching the amazing Namibian sunset. It did not matter to me, because I was happy to be back again in Namibia.
We returned to the farm when it became dark and, especially for me, Christian had made for dinner a “lekker” (yummy) gemsbok roast with pumpkin and mashed potatoes which we washed down with a South African lager and with a Scottish single malt as a digestif. On top of everything we had this wonderful and magnificent view of the African sky with billions of stars, the Milky Way, Magellanic Clouds and the Southern Cross.
After a peaceful sleep, the next morning started early. The wake-up call at 3.30 got me up. A good hot coffee and a rusk was enough before we drove to our determined hunting ground for the morning. The previous days had showed many tracks of springbok that gathered frequently in that area near a natural water source. After our arrival and getting out of the car with our stuff, the walk to the blind was a bit tricky when one is a bit sleepy and has to walk in complete darkness. But excitement soon woke us up when we reached the blind and heard the snorting noises of some springbok that were close by. Unfortunately they heard us and moved slowly but surely away. At sunrise it got warm and more cosy in the blind. Early birds came to the waterhole, and guinea fowl clucked around.
All of a sudden, nine springbok appeared from nowhere and stood on a rocky outcrop to our right. Unfortunately, only ewes and young males or females, but it was delightful to see the youngsters bouncing around – pronking. Beside the enjoyment, it made also some good video footage. Because the wind was in our favour and we were dead quiet, they headed down to the waterhole, drank, and stayed there. Some of them felt so comfortable they lay down about 50 metres from us.
“Buddy, keep your hair on, it is getting serious,” said Otto, when all at once a good springbok ram came over the hill approximately 180 metres away from us. Unconcerned, he trotted towards the water, ignoring the others. In slow motion I rose to my feet. After having sat for the last two hours, my legs felt like wobble pudding! At a snail´s pace I moved to the shooting slot to get in position when the ram was at 80 metres and still heading forward. I nocked in the Carbon Express CX Hunter 300 Advantage arrow equipped with the 125-grain G5 Tekkan II Mechanical Broadhead. The ram was still on his way, completely unperturbed. At 33 metres he reached his destination and lowered his head to sip. That was the time for me to draw back my bow. Within seconds I had the pin of the sight on his vital area. He stood slightly quartering towards me when I fired the arrow from the 80 lb Mathews LX bow, and I heard the arrow crashing through the shoulder and penetrating the lungs before it flew out of the springbok on the other side. Instantly the ram whirled round and away, and at about 40 metres in the direction he came from, he went down on his knees and expired within seconds. What an incredible experience. Only when the other remaining antelopes saw him falling did they get up and bound off. We waited for about 20 minutes until they all had left before we moved out of the blind and walked to the ram. He was a stunning trophy, and both of us where more than happy about this outcome, and we arranged him for some dignified photos. It was still early in this wonderful morning when we headed back to the farm for a good bacon-and-potato omelette breakfast. What a marvellous day.
After a visit and sightseeing of Maltahöhe and the Maltahöhe Hotel which was founded in 1907 and is the oldest country hotel in Namibia, and the town of Mariental and the nearby Hardap Dam, I wanted to try my luck on walking and stalking a special bowhunting challenge – a rock hyrax. These live in one of the two kloofs (canyons) on the farm.
The rock hyrax Procavia capensis, also called rock badger or Cape hyrax and sometimes rock rabbit, is commonly referred to as dassie in Afrikaans. Like all hyraxes, it is a medium-sized, approximately 4kg terrestrial mammal, superficially resembling a guinea pig, with short ears and tail. The closest living relatives to hyraxes are the modern-day elephants! The rock hyrax is found across Africa and the Middle East in habitats with rock crevices into which it escapes from predators. Hyraxes typically live in groups. They have been reported to use sentries: one or more animals take up position on a vantage point and issue alarm calls on the approach of predators.
Once before I had tried to bowhunt them, but without success. These small animals have great eyesight. They can even look directly into the sun, and when they spot you and feel in danger, they directly hide in the many cracks and caves within the rocks. Now I was stalking in an area called Swartmodder along the banks of the Hudup River which runs through the premises of Kachauchab. Along the river bank there were some trees and bushes suitable for ambush. From time to time I glassed the rocks on the other side of the river. By the way, the river had plenty of water, and between the riverbank on my side and the rocks on the other side was a distance of 30 meters. Behind a tree I sat down and glassed again the rocks when I suddenly saw one of these little critters sitting in the shade of a rock. I took my video camera and zoomed him in for some nice footage. He still had not seen me, and I ranged him at 31 metres. Dead slow, I pulled up my bow and put my palm around the bird’s eye maple Gripwerks grip of my Bowtech Tribute, and nocked in the Carbon Express Maxima Hunter arrow with the 125-grain G5 Tekan II Broadhead. The dassie was still sitting under the rock and now facing into my direction, but he seemed to be more curious than frightened. Not to spook him, I drew my bow very slowly and set the pin on his body under the head. My heart was pumping when I pulled the trigger of my Scott release and sent the arrow on its journey.
A second later I heard a high “queek” and the dassie (Klippschliefer in German) and the arrow was gone. Through the binos I could see blood on the stone and that he must have fallen down into a gap below. I packed my stuff and had to go along to find a place where it was possible to cross the river via a dam and get to the top of the rocks where I had to climb down to the place where the dassie could be.
Fortunately l was able to pull him up out of the gap by means of the shooting arrow which had penetrated him, and luckily he was still in perfect shape – horrido!
Besides the dassie and the magnificent springbok ram, I later harvested two springbok for the kitchen and a quail as well, but that is another story – and I still have Virus Africanus!
Take care and always good hunting – Alles van die beste.
Frank
German hunter Frank Berbuir is passionate about the outdoors and hunting – especially bowhunting, which he has practised for more than 17 years. Although he’s bowhunted in several countries, he’s become addicted to hunting in Africa since his first safari in 2004. Frank is a mechanical engineer and risk manager in the automotive industry.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_gallery type=”image_grid” images=”12493,12492,12491,12490,12489,12488,12487,12486,12485″][/vc_column][/vc_row]
Oct 20, 2017 | Hunting Stories, News
One of the first questions you hear, when you announce that you’re going to Africa, is a tremulous, “But aren’t you afraid of snakes?”
Answer: “Yep. Terrified! What of it?”
If I let my life-long dislike of reptiles deter me, I would not hunt in south Texas, I’d avoid Alabama, and Australia would be out of the question. For that matter, I wouldn’t live in Missouri, where we have copperheads, water moccasins, and the occasional rattler.
Every so often, I sit back and count on my fingers the number of times, during 14 or 15 trips to Africa, totalling more than three years of my life, that I have even seen a snake. I have yet to run out of fingers. Snakes there certainly are, but they just haven’t bothered me.
Now, stories about snakes? You done come to the right place, pal. Where do you want me to start? Oh, wait: First, a word of advice. If you are a herpetophobe, fearing snakes to an irrational degree, the first question you should ask a prospective professional hunter is how he feels about them. If his face lights up and he assures you that he loves snakes and plays with them every chance he gets, thank him politely, back away, and sign on with someone else. Trust me on that one. I speak from experience.
People who actually like snakes can’t fathom people who don’t, just as cat lovers can’t relate to the benighted few who find cats repellent. Fortunately, there aren’t that many snake lovers; unfortunately, most of them seem to be PHs.
One time in Botswana I was waist-deep in a hippo pool, which was home to (by actual count) 14 hippos and one large crocodile. We were hunting ducks and geese, and my guide would fire a shot over the reeds, and birds would flush. One duck came zipping by and I dropped it into the water a few yards behind me. When I went to retrieve it, I found a large python curled around it, contemplating duck recipes. With whoops of joy, my PH handed me his gun, grabbed the python by the tail, and hauled it ashore, yelling at me all the while to be sure to get the duck.
The python turned out to be a young one — only 12 feet long, but he looked bigger to me — and we “played” with it on the bank for an hour, then allowed it to slither back into the water, shaking its serpentine head in disbelief and making reptilian mutterings. I knew how it felt. We kept the duck, which I thought was a trifle unfair.
Another time, I was staying with a friend on the edge of the Okavango. He had a permanent tent camp, and I had a mattress on the floor of the cook tent. Cook tents generally contain mice, and mice attract snakes. The night we arrived, around dusk, Clint pulled into his usual parking spot. I opened the door and jumped out, looking down as I did at a cobra, right under my feet. You can, I found, change trajectory in mid-air, and my feet missed the cobra by at least a yard.
“Oh,” Clint said, “I forgot to tell you. I killed that snake this morning. Found it behind the cook tent. Sorry.”
It was dead, but still. I can’t say I slept all that well the first couple of nights, but then I settled in and all was fine. The memory receded.
My particular horror is the Mozambique spitting cobra, which rears up and lets fly a stream of venom, aimed at your eyes, and is reputed to be accurate from several yards out. Blindness does not appeal to me. A friend who has a game ranch outside Bulawayo had her buildings constructed around an inner courtyard, one of which contained the shower and another a privy. As is normal in Africa (don’t ask me why) the privy was at the far end of a narrow room, with a tiny window in the wall above. She went out in the dead of night to do what people do in the dead of night. The generator was not running, but there was a full moon, so she didn’t bother with a flashlight.
As she settled in, she felt a stream of cool liquid hit her thigh. A spitting cobra was in there with her, probably right beside her in the darkness. The room was illuminated only by thin moonlight through the high window. What did she do?
“I closed my eyes and waited,” she said. “Then I made a dash for the door. Don’t let anyone tell you you can’t run with your pants around your ankles.” The cobra also made its escape. The privy now has its very own flashlight, hanging outside the door.
Cobras are one thing. Mambas are another. Mambas make cobras seem almost friendly. Stuart Cloete, the great South African writer, wrote a blood-chilling novel called Mamba, which is about a love triangle, with the snake playing the same role it’s enjoyed since Genesis. Ever since reading that, 40 or 50 years ago, the mamba has haunted my dreams.
At the risk of overstating, they are reputed to be able to outrun a horse (if snakes can be said to run), outclimb a monkey, be extraordinarily deadly, and have the personality of a wolverine. There are black mambas and green mambas. The black is the more common, (and more aggressive) and is actually a dark brownish-grey.
The editor of one of the Big Three went to Botswana back in the early ‘90s. He was sleeping in his tent one night when something woke him up. He heard scurrying. A mouse. It scurried here. It scurried there. Eventually, he dropped back to sleep. In the morning, they went out hunting, and returned to camp for lunch. He walked into his tent and out through the back to the adjoining privy, which had the toilet on one side and the shower on the other. He glanced into the shower and there, halfway in through the drain hole, was the front half of a black mamba. At the sight of him, it reared up, but was unable to perform with mamba-like dexterity until it had pulled itself in through the drain, which was a tight fit. By the time it cleared the drain, our fearless editor was out through the front and calling for help.
The PH returned with some trackers and a shotgun, found the tent empty, and proceeded to beat the brush behind it. The mamba made tracks (so to speak) and got its head blown off.
Piecing it together, they concluded that the scurrying noises the editor heard the night before was a mouse, seeking to escape, while the mamba stalked it under the bed and over the wardrobe. This realization was too much. The editor was packed and heading for the airport before dark, and has never returned.
Another mamba story: I was in Tanzania on the edge of the Rift Valley, driving along a track past a Masai camp. We saw a mamba cross the track and go into a grain-storage hut through a crack in the wall. We stopped and advised the residents. Soon, a bunch of budding Masai morani, complete with spears and robes, had gathered around and were debating who was going to go in after it. Our trackers, both Masai themselves (and who insist on spelling it with one ‘a’) looked disgusted with the whole thing, and finally one climbed down, pulled aside the door frame, and went in. There was loud clattering as he beat his walking stick against the grain baskets. The mamba came out the way he went in, scattering the teenagers, while our other tracker nailed it. There then began the debate about who had panicked and run first, while we drove away.
Just so there is no mistake, yours truly would not have entered that hut for a 50-inch buffalo.
By scientific analysis, per gram of venom, the boomslang is (or was) reputed to be the deadliest snake in Africa, although I believe now some obscure adder from West Africa is considered deadlier. The boomslang (it means “tree snake” in Afrikaans) is a medium-sized green fellow with a shy and retiring nature. Not aggressive like the mamba (I guess you don’t need to be when you’re that well-armed), he is made less deadly by the fact that his fangs are in the back of his mouth, and it’s tough for him to get a good grip and inject much venom.
One time, staying on a farm outside Arusha, my PH was called to deal with “A snake! A snake!” in one of the store rooms. Having no idea what it might be, we grabbed a club and bucket and went to investigate. It turned out to be a baby boomslang, no more than eight or nine inches long, vivid green against the shavings on the floor. My PH was no snake lover, but he believed that all creatures have their place. We herded the little guy into the bucket, then released him in some brush on the edge of the farm.
I have other snake tales — cobras, mambas, puff adders — but we’ll save them for another time. Funny thing, though: Thinking about all this has made me realize that, much as I dislike snakes, Africa would not be the same without them. If only to terrorize the folks at home.
Sep 4, 2017 | News
During August 2016, we hosted a party from Scandinavian outdoor clothing brand, Härkila that was in the production phase of a new line called PH.
We did photo shots in various locations for their 2017 catalogue, but ended up at Limpopo Province, where I’ve hunted the river for the past 36 years with Scandinavian clients, and must have bagged a couple of hundred bushbucks in total. My long-time friend Jens Kjaer Knudsen, who is an official Härkila brand ambassador who travels the entire globe promoting the company, went with me on a stalk along the river, together with a photographer and his assistant.
Not the best start for a bushbuck hunt to trail along with this type of entourage, but after scaring off several rams, I saw the back part of a bushbuck sticking out behind a large tree, with the head and neck covered by the tree trunk. After positioning Jens on the shooting stick, I moved slightly forward and also saw a real good right horn sticking out, and I decided to let Jens take him, hoping that the left horn would be of the same size.
It turned out to be a good decision. My best friend just bagged the largest bushbuck in my entire career! Jens so deserved this trophy – as President of the Nordic Safari Club he did much to promote ethical hunting, and pioneered the removal of all South African lions from their record books, ensuring that only trophies taken on fair chase were listed.
Last month Jens and I also took two free-range hog deer at Gippland Lakes in Southern Australia, but that’s another story altogether. I am nearing the completion of collecting most deer species of the world – booked next year with three clients – for Siberian roebuck!
Rodney Kretzschmar of Trans African Taxidermists mounted Jens’s bushbuck and, along with all trophies from the 2016 season, was delivered before 01/09/2016. The trophies were handed out in Copenhagen to our clients on 14/11/2017 – ready to hang on their walls. That’s the type of service I’ve been spoiled with for the past 36 hunting seasons, and it remains an important part of our marketing.
In my book – the hunt only ends when the trophy is hanging on the client’s wall!
Kind regards,
JENSEN SAFARIS,
Sep 2, 2017 | News
Bushbuck Hunt, Luangwa, Zambia.
PH Journal:
I was camped with two friends on the bank of the Luangwa River, Zambia. One day, one of my friends returned very excited after seeing a “monster bushbuck”. He would not tell me where it was, as he wanted to try for him first. He kept trying for about a week, but each time he returned empty-handed, till I finally managed to get him to tell me whereabouts this “monster” lived!
Armed with my trusty .458 Lott and a reasonable idea of where to search, I set off. The spot that was described was not easy to find, as many trees and anthills looked the same – and no bushbuck.
Then suddenly I heard the very loud bark of one. Found him!
The next morning I returned and just stood quietly and listened. There were a lot of monkeys on the ground eating some sort of pod, so I Imagined that the bushbuck would be searching for the same food source. I had to be very careful – if I alerted the monkeys the game would be over. After 30 minutes stealthy steps to go maybe 15 yards, I could just discern the bushbuck’s horns behind an anthill. What I saw made me start to shake!
The ram was feeding from right to left but disappeared as I saw him. I had an idea where he was, but would have to move about another 10 yards undetected, and also try get my nerves under control. I shuffled the 10 yards to my left but could not see anything. I knew that he was somewhere, and I just stood frozen, staring into every shadow.
Suddenly his outline was silhouetted in the gloom. Totally unaware of me, he was feeding on some pods. My trembling was still not under control, but I raised my open-sighted .458 Lott and tried to steady the bead without using a rest. It was only about 40 yards, but the barrel was weaving all over the place.
Finally, when the bead passed his shoulder I pulled the trigger, and the bullet found a spot high on the shoulder, and downed him in his tracks. It is hard for me to try and describe the feeling that overcame me. I knelt next to him and just admired his beauty for many minutes. Tears were very near, and I was grateful to be alone in silence. But it was not long before a few of the camp workers arrived as they had heard the shot. We carried the ram on our shoulders back to camp and, strangely, no one said a word.
And every time I look at this picture, now faded by time, I relive the moment as though it were yesterday.
Aug 31, 2017 | Jerry Bullock, Jerry Bullock, News
By Jerry Bullock
I recognized the face on the book jacket across three aisles in the Book Department of a JC Penney Department Store. Department stores actually had departments in 1966, including books and phonograph records. This was long before any Barnes and Noble or Borders. I knew that slouchy, broad-brimmed hat, that cigarette at a jaunty angle of the right hand, that black moustache, that wise-guy, sideways glancing grin, and wrinkled safari jacket. Robert Ruark. I hurried over as if to visit an old friend sighted in a crowd.
Thirteen years earlier, at the age of ten, I had discovered Ruark’s column, The Old Man and the Boy in Field and Stream magazine. Every month I leafed hurriedly, excitedly, until I found a similar photo below the column title, The Old Man and the Boy. There was where my debt began to accrue.
Ruark was writing of his young boyhood back in the late 1920s, spent with his grandfather and two backwoods friends, hunting in his North Carolina home country for quail with English pointers, as well as hunting squirrels, rabbits and a few deer. He told of fishing for big freshwater bass and the saltwater surf fish. It was a biography of my own young life being lived in a similar day-to-day rhythm. He had only his grandfather. I had my grandfather plus my dad, uncles, and their friends to mentor me. With them attending, they took me hunting raccoons at night with hounds, pheasants with setters, squirrels and rabbits with beagles, and a few deer hunts. My grandfather taught me how to trap muskrats. My best friend and I spent all but two months of the year trapping, fishing, or hunting. We lived, in part, more in the nineteenth century than the twentieth.
I knew that what I had with these men and these creatures was something special, wonderful, and unique. None of the kids or families outside my circle seemed to know or have interest in these activities that were so important to us. Robert Ruark thought these pursuits were important. He told that little ten-year-old it was important, every month in his column. He told me how important the lessons were he had learned from his mentors and, by implication, that I was going to hear and learn from mine. He reminded me I just had to keep my ears open, pay attention. And learn. He crystallized what thoughts I had about how valuable these experiences would be for me one day. I somehow knew they would be a dependable anchor in any future rough seas.
Ruark’s words allowed me to understand, to put form and character to the young life I was living. So, rather than having to wait for the wisdom of age and experience to allow me to look back and see these wonders and their values, I could live them as a young boy while knowing them as an adult through his words, making them all the more rich, valuable, and indelible. Because of Ruark, that little ten-year-old was always listening and taking note with ears far beyond his years.
I was keeping a diary of it all by the time I was eleven years old. Seemed that those memories and that record would be valuable one day, so I tried to capture some of it. To an outsider, it might have appeared strange that a little boy living such an apparently hillbilly life would form such thoughts at such an early age. Ruark whispered that I should do and be these things. Easy for urban fools to look down on us and make judgements. One misjudged my family and their circle of friends at one’s own peril.
I’d be remiss if I did not mention I had other authors. Faulkner, Hemingway, Trueblood, O’Connor, Leopold, and more. Outdoor writing was wonderful, far more literary, in that time. But Ruark was the one that resonated the most for me. Today we have Weiland and few others.
Life for me was not what an outsider might have judged it to be by looking at that old, somewhat run-down house, with hounds tied to boxes, and tractors and trucks strewn about. We did not have extra money above what was needed for food – just enough clothes, and fuel to keep warm. We were never hungry, cold, or without the basics. Just nothing fancy or extra. But we had enough earned from our own kid-jobs for shells for the shotgun, fishing lures for bass, lines and tippet for the fly rod, food for the hounds, books to read, and later, gas for a car, presents for girls. As the song goes, “Some girls don’t like boys like me. But some girls do.” Never sought or wasted time with the girls that “don’t.” Only sought the ones that “do.”
I guess we were poor for sure, but it didn’t seem so, until the yuppie precursor hordes invaded our valley and told us so. But peer pressure could not really penetrate our souls, our world. And with Ruark cheering us on, who needed that urban mess. Ruark placed an author’s note in the front of The Old Man and The Boy stating, “Anyone who reads this book is bound to realize that I had a fine time as a kid.” Same for me, Mr. Ruark. A real fine time. I have you and so many others to thank for that.
But those few early yuppie precursors swelled to thousands sweeping away our beautiful creatures and landscapes. Their rabbit-warren housing and the endless shopping malls bulldozed away all that was important to us. In fifteen years, only a single surviving field-corner oak or a remnant patch of woods remained. Ruark and his grandfather told me to leave, and I did, to Idaho, where I reside today. I have watched some of Idaho swept away, too, but not the extensive, total oblivion that destroyed my old home fields and woods.
As the 50s rolled on, Ruark’s later columns carried some wonderful stories of African safaris that enthralled me. Here was the summit of all hunting, and I wanted some of it. I knew from my low, economic perch, this was impossible, but I dreamed. At ten or twelve years, kids can’t grasp what might happen financially in the future, only what is, and what was not going to get me a plane ticket let alone an African safari.
The end of the 50s brought changes to the column. I had become distracted by girls and part-time jobs and cars. I hunted and fished as much as ever, but the column’s new content held less allure, and Robert Ruark and I parted ways. Drifted apart. The column ended in 1962. I wasn’t aware of the full magnitude of the loss at the time. That would come later.
Then, in that JC Penney’s Department Store came the renewal. The book’s title was, Use Enough Gun about African hunting. I quickly leafed through and found the black and white photos. A photo of Ruark with a big waterbuck. I was struck by the animal’s rugged handsomeness. That animal and the kudu would become my most coveted African animals. How was I to know I would later – 46 years later – hold my own similar waterbuck taken in the same manner as Robert Ruark’s. The stalk, the shot range and placement, the animal’s reaction were a copy of Ruark’s waterbuck story as he relates it in Use Enough Gun. In JC Penney’s that day, I would have never dreamt it possible.
It was so wonderful to have found Mr. Ruark again. I devoured Use Enough Gun. Read it three, maybe five times over the next six months. In the ensuing years, I discovered The Old Man and the Boy had been anthologized. That Horn of the Hunter had been written. I acquired them and read them. But I had not inquired after the man. Where was he? What was he doing? He should have been alive, in his fifties by then. I was too taken up with career, a wife, a young life. Too busy to check into the wellbeing of my old friend. He was dead as a matter of fact.
Ruark’s excesses and his choice of a stressful life, foreign to his true self, ate him up and killed him at the age of 49 years plus 6 months. He had re-discovered himself in Africa, but it was too late to mount a recovery, a redirection. He died just a year before my discovery of Use Enough Gun. I did not revere him as a role model. I am not supporting his behaviors. I am revering his written words. Maybe some of the nasty critics could have done more of that. Just critiquing his words and not his behavior. I believe his words in The Old Man and the Boy show us his true soul. Nothing to criticize there.
I read Something of Value and Uruhu, Ruark’s two best sellers about Africa. I acquired Someone of Value and A View From a Tall Hill, two biographies that fleshed out the Ruark story more completely for me.
It was the 1990s. Ruark could have been in his eighties but, of course, he was gone. I had finally, fully comprehended the debt I owed him for his words that helped clarify and guide me in so many of my important decisions in my life. I regretted not being able, through face-to-face words or a letter, to thank him while he was alive.
I was attending a conference on carbohydrate chemistry in Chicago sponsored by the Whistler Institute of Purdue University, the premier center of carbohydrate study in the world. Dr. Roy Whistler was its founder and namesake for this conference. I happened to sit with Dr. Whistler at lunch one day. Toward the end of the lunch I heard Dr. Whistler mention he had spent time in Africa in the early 50s, researching potential native carbohydrate-providing plant sources. I asked him if he had hunted.
“Oh yes,” he said, “As much as I could.” Dr. Whistler was animated and enthused that someone at this gathering shared his interest. He told me he had all of these hunting trophies in his home, but almost no one who visits knows what they are, what they are for, or what they mean to him. He supposed he would have to get rid of them all, maybe to a museum. Sounds familiar. The same will likely happen to my own, and sooner than I know. I asked if he might have met Robert Ruark in his travels.
“Yes,” Dr. Whistler said, “At a bar in Nairobi.” He described Robert Ruark as an engaging guy and that they had a great conversation. I told Dr. Whistler that Robert Ruark was an important figure in my life, but I had never had the opportunity to meet him. I asked if I might have the pleasure of shaking the hand of a man who had shaken the hand of Robert Ruark. Dr. Whistler smiled and extended his hand, indicating he understood. And that is as close as I would ever come to Robert Ruark.
Just last year I was in an antique store and spotted a mid-fifties Field and Stream. Just like that ten-year-old kid, I hurried through the pages until I spotted that photo and the column title. I swear I was just as excited as when I was 10 years old receiving the magazine in the mail. I bought that copy so I can leaf through any time I want to feel that 10-year-old’s surge of excitement and happiness again.
Terry Weiland, author of Ruark’s biography, A View From a Tall Hill and similarly enthralled with Ruark, wrote a column in the January 2016 edition of Safari Times. A resurgence of my sense of neglectful guilt overwhelmed me as I read it.
You see, December 29, 2015 was Robert Ruark’s 100th birthday anniversary. Weiland knew this. He saw to it to know it. I did not, but should have. Weiland owes an unpayable debt. He stated that in his column. But Weiland wrote an extensive biography and his birthday column that will reach thousands with the Ruark story and the love we feel for this man and what he did for us. What have I done?
Weiland once stayed in a cabin attached to a Nairobi hotel, a cabin where Ruark stayed on many nights before and after safaris. Weiland reports he visited with the ghosts of Ruark in that room and drank a few of Ruark’s favorite drinks in toasts to Ruark. The cabins are torn down now, replaced with soulless structures housing know-nothing shutterbug tourists, and so-called conservationists belonging to proud worldwide conservation organizations complicit with the corrupt officials who hold hands with the urban conservationists in their conferences by day, and run the poaching rings by night.
Ruark died when he was 49 years old. How much more could he have written if only he had lived. But he came along at just the right time for me and, I suspect, tens of thousands of others like me in that twenty-year window of susceptibility in young lives. If you shared any similar memories in your youth, you need to reconnect with Ruark.
If you have never heard of the man or read his words, connect with him now. You will not be sorry. Of my vintage, or any vintage, I urge you, if you love hunting and love wildlife. If you had beloved family or friends who mentored you. If a dog or a bird or deer holds a place in your soul, seek and buy The Old Man and the Boy. I urge you to buy Use Enough Gun and/or Horn of the Hunter if you have any interest in hunting, any hunting, especially if you are interested in Africa. Safari Press and Amazon sells them all. Maybe that will assuage my guilt regarding what I owe the man.
To Robert Ruark: The hunting industry owes you. The wildlife that benefits from the hunters you encouraged and helped create, owe you. The world is richer that you lived, and for what you wrote. I just wish I had taken care of your memory a bit better. Rest in peace old friend. This simple country boy owes you a debt that can never be repaid.
Bio:
Jerry has been an have been active in conservation organizations for nearly 50 years, is a life member of SCI, Rocky Mountain Elk Foundation, the Boone and Crockett Club, and member of Pheasants Forever, Dallas Safari Club, and Trout Unlimited. He has a column in rotating local newspapers on conservation and the role of hunting and fishing in sustainable wildlife use and conservation.
Box:
I grew up just 20 miles west of Philadelphia. But it was real country then. Game abounded in hardwood ridges and farm fields. Fish were in all the clean streams and small lakes. All destroyed now. I hunted, fished, and trapped from the age of eight. Grew up with dogs and men who loved the pursuit, the adventure. I moved to Idaho at 35 years of age.
I’m a fly tier and fly fisherman. I reload for my ammunition and some of my friends Have hunted the US, Canada, and Africa, and still do the best I can each year on deer and elk. Lost my old bird dog, so don’t chase the ducks and pheasants so much anymore.
Still dreaming of a buffalo or two somewhere in Africa. Have been looking at Zimbabwe with the most interest, or maybe Zambia. Don’t need a record book bull, just an old gnarly, worn and busted old boy with a big boss. An old boy on his last legs with no friends or women folk. Too old to breed or fight. Just lion bait if they dare. Hell, sounds like me! Sad, this age thing.
But better than death!
Aug 29, 2017 | News
Southern Rhodesia: The 1940s
By Paul McCay
“You are never less alone than when you are alone in the bush.”
My life as a keen hunter began at the age of about six, where I grew up as the fifth child of six children on a large cattle ranch of 30,000 acres in Southern Rhodesia (Now Zimbabwe). My father was the second son of an 1891 pioneer to the country, and was manager of the ranch. He also owned his own ranch of a further 24,000 acres some fifty miles away.
We all had daily tasks to do, and my main one was to check that the gun safe and the contents were kept clean, and the weapons oiled. My first gun was a .177 Diana air gun, which I still keep for sentimental reasons. This I used to great effect in keeping the various birds away from my mother’s fruit and vegetable garden. From my many relatives I would hear stories of their hunting days and the famous British gun makers like Holland & Holland, Purdey, Westley Richards, and the American makers of Winchester, Colt and many others.
As soon as I was allowed, I began to seek further pastures and wandered off into the bush in search of other birds to hunt. I was allowed 10 pellets a day and was under very strict instruction not to kill anything I was not prepared to eat. I always carried a box of matches and a pocket knife, the latter to clean and prepare the birds for cooking over an open fire. On occasions I was followed by a child of an African worker in his hope of sharing the kill, and I always insisted he stayed well back and out of the way. However, we did get to share a lot, and learned so much from each other.
As I grew older my father said I could use his Winchester, pre 64 model 70 in .22 Hornet for shooting small game. To be allowed the use of this was also under very strict guidelines. I would be given three rounds and told that one was to kill a buck, and the second in case a shot resulted in a wounded animal. The third was to ensure I had protection on the way home. I was also told that I had to have a helper. His name was Sehla, and we were to share many years of hunting together, and from him I learnt a great deal of tracking ability and the need to conserve one’s body stability. The main issue here was not to drink any liquid when you’re hot, but to sit quietly until fully cooled down before taking a drink. This allowed me to stay out all day if necessary, and we would eat a bird killed with his throwing sticks. He taught me how to use them and I became quite adept at the odd francolin, quail or dove. Occasionally I took a wild hare.
The other criterion was that I was only allowed to shoot small buck as I would have to carry home whatever I shot. At eight years of age I shot my first buck, a small steenbok ram, and even though Sehla was with me, I carried this home myself as my father had given him strict instructions not to assist with this task. At the age of nine I shot my first impala ram, and between Sehla and me, we carried this home.
My father then told me that I would henceforth be responsible to do the hunting for the family as well as for our African labour. When game was not found I had to round up some of our cattle and select an ageing cow and despatch that. The worst part of my responsibilities became the final hunt for one of our faithful dogs when it became unable to do much more than barely walk. These distasteful duties taught me that it was necessary to kill only in order to eat. They did not change my desire to be out in nature and to walk for hours on end, but rather to enjoy the hunt, and to become a hunter, more than a just shottist.
Once, at around ten years of age I was out looking for game to shoot for the family, and had been walking for the better part of the day, not being able to find anything. Then I saw the tracks of what I thought was a large impala and followed very slowly. After some time I came upon a herd of kudu. Fortunately I had been given a 7×57 rifle, so I took a large bull. How to carry this back and to tell my father that I had shot one was not a task I was looking forward to, as he had not given me permission to shoot one. Fortunately he was very thankful as the workers also needed meat, and pleased that the kill was clean and the bullet allowance was not misused. After this I was allowed to borrow a vehicle for the recovery of bigger game.
My parents would have to take periodic trips to town for supplies, and we children had to go along when we were not at boarding school. I hated these trips as it would mean not being out walking in the bush, and on one occasion when I was about ten, I begged them to allow me to stay at the ranch. Much pleading bore fruit, but only on condition that one brother also wanted to stay, which was agreed to. Once they were out of sight, I said to my brother that we should try out my father’s Joseph Manton .577 hammer double rifle, but he was not at all keen on the idea.
I managed to persuade him as long as he got to do the driving of the Land Rover, which we also took without permission. We drove out to the bush and found a suitable tree for the target and loaded both barrels. I asked my brother if he wanted to shoot, and he said I should try first, so I cocked both barrels and lifted the rifle to shoot. It was so heavy that I had to lean over backwards a little in order to get it at the right height, and pulled the trigger. The blast also made my finger pull the other trigger, and I landed up flat on my back from the hefty kick.
“Wow! That was fun!” I said, and offered him the rifle to have a go, but he refused. And that’s how my love of big guns was forever burnt into my soul, despite the bruised shoulder. I never told my father about the incident, and was distraught when he later sold the rifle to an Australian collector.
A big problem we had on the ranch was the attention of wild pigs to our crops, and they needed to be hunted and destroyed. Finding them was not easy, as they would go great distances away from their nocturnal ravaging of the crops. But I became quite good at finding them with the help of some dogs and other young children of our workers. We would find the sounder, and upon flushing them I might be lucky enough to shoot one, and once managed two, but that did not reduce their numbers sufficiently.
On one occasion a young African was charged by one and he killed it with a blow to the head with nothing more than a knobkerrie. This got me thinking, and so I had a large knobkerrie made for me. We would then go out, and when finding a sounder, the bulk of the helpers and the dogs would go upwind and approach the pigs.
They would always turn towards me and a helper, and upon seeing us, would inevitably charge. The trick was to sidestep at the last moment and bring the kerrie down on the pig’s snout just below the eyes. This would drive a bone into the brain and kill it instantly. Such adrenalin-filled moments! We managed to build a quite a tally, but the carcasses would be secretly taken away by the staff as my mother would have had a nervous breakdown had she known. Apart from hunting buffalo, I have never experienced excitement like this, but would not attempt to do this now with my reflexes having slowed down.
I continued to do the majority of the hunting for the family, and found that it was far better to hunt during the hottest part of any day as I realised that the game also liked to rest up at this time and could be stalked to within much closer shooting range and thus ensure a clean kill. However, game was harder to find like that, as it was not moving around. I could only find it by spotting spoor and following the tracks.
The ranch that my father managed was owned by my mother’s brothers, and they had a passion for shotgun shooting. One uncle was involved in politics, and would invite various dignitaries, including the governors of the country at the time, and other important people. My father was tasked with preparing an annual shoot for guinea fowl and francolin which were in great numbers due to the crops we grew. We children joined with the African labour and became beaters to drive the birds towards the waiting guests, and had the task of collecting the bag of birds shot and searching for any wounded birds.
On one occasion my uncle’s Purdey shotgun barrel burst due to using the wrong cartridges, and the barrel peeled back as if it had been a sardine can rolled back, trapping one of his fingers. Fortunately, one of the guests was a Dr Standish White, who patched him up after the twisted part of the barrel had been cut off his finger with a hacksaw. Purdey made a new set of barrels for him afterwards.
One day while I walking in the bush, I killed a francolin with my throwing stick and decided to risk taking it home to ask my mother to cook it for me. Shortly prior to this, my eldest brother had been taking us home for a weekend when he overtook a military Land Rover that had not heard his continuous hooting and had reported him to the Police for dangerous driving.
The Police had been sent to take reports on the incident, and a constable had been sent to find me to get my statement of the event. I thought he had seen me with the francolin and was there to arrest me, so I made a long detour around and sneaked into the house through the back door and decided to hide my bird, which I did, behind a lounge cushion. When the Police had gone, I was so relieved that I was not in trouble that I forgot about my prize.
Some days later a bad smell was permeating throughout the house, and my mother sent everyone to find the source. One of the servants had the name of Mbanqwa which interpreted meant “Lizard”, and we were all looking for what we thought would be a dead lizard as these were often found having died in the house. I waited until no one was with me and removed the dead and rotting bird together with the attending maggots. Everyone said that Mbanqwa was the cause of the smell. My mother never did get the joke and I never got to eat my bird!
The Wanderer
Paul McCay
Paul was born in Bulawayo in 1943 and started hunting at the early age of six, and shot his first buck at the age of eight. He has a passion for the wild places and walking in the bush and has hunted in Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe), Zambia, Namibia and South Africa, having hunted all the Big Five and numerous plains-game species.
