Usually, hunting bongo is not very difficult; it doesn’t require insurmountable physical effort. But it does demand tenacity, concentration, and the willingness to face the often-hostile and sometimes painful equatorial forest. One must also accept the long, tedious 4×4 drives day after day, often seeing nothing until the right track is found.
This story will show that sometimes it can be excessively difficult, both mentally and physically, far beyond the usual hardship. This is not necessarily what we seek in a hunting trip, since the hunter is supposed to be on vacation. I believe that big game hunting in general should be associated with a quest that requires a minimum of physical effort. In this particular case, it was extreme and without enjoyment.
At the beginning of June, we welcome a European hunter, accompanied by his agent and cameraman. The trio is young, full of energy, and very friendly. The hunting season in Congo had started several weeks earlier. The rains are regular, and the salt licks are frequented by bongos, buffaloes, and other forest animals. The hunting conditions are good. After six days of hunting (half of the trip), we still haven’t found any signs of a solitary bongo bull. We’ve already covered several hundred kilometres in 4×4 and several dozens on foot.
On the morning of the seventh day, we finally reach the “hot spot” of the territory at the moment, the Lokongo baÏ. The bridge, about ten meters long, had broken the last time the heavy Toyota passed. The vehicle had dangerously reared up but had not fallen into the river. A team had spent two days repairing it, and we could finally access the area. After the famous bridge, we have to take the infernal road. Only three kilometers have been opened up with machetes and elbow grease. The ruts, mud, and roots force us to drive slowly, and the jolts are brutal for the human body…
Then, we reach the end of the trail, in the middle of the equatorial forest. There is nothing, just the hostile and brutal jungle. From here, a small path opens up, which we cleared with the Baka trackers. It takes about half an hour to walk the two kilometers to reach the Lokongo baï. The small meadow is located on the right bank of the crystal-clear river of the same name as the baï. These natural clearings, rich in minerals, attract countless multicolored butterflies, Gabon grey parrots, green pigeons, gorillas, buffaloes, and of course, bongos, which are the main goal of this safari.
It is still early, and the fog has not yet dissipated when we discover a beautiful track of a solitary bongo. The front hoof is long and wide, making deep marks on the wet ground. After a thorough inspection, we notice that one of its legs shows an unusual mark, as if it had been cut. The animal has probably gotten caught in a poacher’s trap and can no longer place its foot normally. The trail camera check confirms the presence of a large bongo… Indeed, its body and neck are massive. Its roman nose shows a mature animal. The horns are long and thick. All the signs are there to start the pursuit.
After the excitement of this great discovery, all the members of the team focus and prepare for the tracking. The Baka trackers rip a few leaves from nearby plants and attach them to their belts for “good luck”. The superstition or the citizen of the forest plays an important part in everything they do, especially when they go hunting. The six dogs are unleashed, and the hunt begins.
An hour later, we find ourselves back at the starting point, returning to the salt lick… The animal made a large loop, we took the wrong trail… Frustration is visible on everyone’s face. The hunters’ expressions are slightly mocking and irritated… there’s a feeling of shame among the trackers and the guide for making the mistake. The good mood takes a hit, but we remain confident. A few minutes pass, then Robert, the experienced Baka tracker from neighboring Cameroon, restarts the tracking. We are in single file behind the solitary, who is heading deeper into the Congolese forest.
Suddenly, the forest darkens, the wind blows dangerously through the treetops, and then comes the rain… or rather, the tropical deluge, where each drop feels like a liter… our hopes of seeing the bongo vanish. We shelter for a few minutes under our ponchos, but the storm is too violent. It takes two hours of walking through the pouring rain to reach the 4×4. We are, of course, soaked to the bone, shivering from the cold, and all the muscles in our bodies are stiff and sore. The return to camp is uneventful, but still in good spirits. That was the first tracking of the trip.
The next day, the eighth day of the safari, we return to check the salt lick after the deluge. The verdict is clear—no track. Nature tests our patience…
Ninth day of the safari; a day of grace and pain
The generator starts at four in the morning. A hot coffee helps wake everyone up. By four-thirty, the whole team and the dogs are in the car. It’s time to leave. We need an hour of driving to reach the parking area deep in the jungle.
By five-thirty, with the first light of dawn, we begin walking towards the salt lick. We still don’t know that a long day awaits us… At six in the morning, we arrive at the baï and find that a bongo left only an hour ago. The track and the images from the trail camera show that it is the same animal we followed two days ago. Eyes meet, gleaming with excitement. A few words are exchanged, and the six Basenji dogs are released. I know from experience that the tracking should not take more than thirty minutes before the dogs corner the bongo. I don’t say anything and give the signal to go. The sun is already high in the clear sky. Sweat pours down, and shirts are soaked. The long human column stretches out into the humid forest without making too much noise. With the ground still very wet, the tracking is easy and fast. The animal heads southwest, towards the small swampy river called Baboundou. After twenty minutes of walking, we bump into a herd of lowland gorillas. We see them running and descending from trees, sliding down the trunks. It’s total chaos… The large primates scream and break branches, the dogs bark fiercely. The trackers shout insults
n their local dialect and bang their machetes on the trees. It takes several minutes before the dogs are all gathered safely, because without them, it would be impossible to bay a bongo in this environment. I know deep down that the solitary has heard it all and has fled at full speed. Now alerted, it won’t be easy to catch. But it’s still early, and we don’t have many days left in the trip. We have no choice but to pick up the trail and go on.
Two hundred meters after the drama, we realize that the animal has begun to run at full speed. The hunter asks me if we can still catch it. I explain that we need to try for a few more hours. The morale is a bit shaken, but we are still full of energy. The tracking continues.
At this point, the bongo is no longer feeding; it is seeking the most impenetrable spots. We must crouch, climb over fallen trees, crawl, and avoid the thorny vines that tear at the skin. Although the trackers clear the way with machetes, the progress is slow and difficult. The body is being put to the test.
Now the bongo is walking with the wind at its back and leaps into a river, following it for a few hundred meters. It’s trying to outwit us; it’s very clever. We wade through water and mud up to our thighs. Soaked, we emerge from the swamp and fall into a column of ants. Thousands of ants moving, and of course, they climb on us and bite our legs. We run and jump, but they are everywhere, within thirty meters of the group.
Some dive into the river, others strip off their pants to get rid of the ants. The torment is added to the hours of walking and the uncertainty of the chase. After several hours, our solitary bongo mixes its tracks with those of a herd… Is it a coincidence or yet another trick?
Thanks to the determination and patience of the pygmy trackers, we are able, after several minutes, to continue our journey. I glance at my watch—five hours of pursuit, and our bongo shows no signs of fatigue, unlike the hunters and dogs. At this point, I don’t know what the hunter is thinking. I avoid looking at him or asking questions.
The suffering is real… I know the trackers will not give up, but I think about the hours of walking back and dread the thought of facing the jungle at night. The steps are heavy and uncertain; roots and vines trip us up. We must accept and push beyond our comfort zone, continue deeper into the forest.
After six hours of walking, we find ourselves at the footstep of a mountainous area with steep, slippery slopes. Robert, my faithful tracker, looks at me and says, “It’s going to stop at the top; it’s not too far now.” I’m convinced the solitary is going to climb to the top of its domain, find a thick thicket, lie down, and chew cud while watching for danger.
The small hunting party stops to rest before the final rush. We gather the dogs, who immediately fall asleep. The usually talkative pygmies are silent. While smoking their cigarettes, I see the weariness in their faces. Do they doubt the outcome of this hunt?
I don’t know, and I don’t ask. I know deep down that everyone is physically drained, and I also know the return will be a nightmare.
The slope is so steep that the beautiful striped antelope climbs in zigzags… we must grab onto shrubs to avoid sliding down the slope on our stomachs… calves and thighs burn, breath is short, and temples throb. At the top, we must stop to recover.
The summit is made up of exceedingly dense, almost impenetrable vegetation. The vines entangle us, blocking our path. Again, we must climb over, duck, and cut through quietly. The wind is blowing slightly in our direction. Robert is at the front, and we follow closely behind. The dogs walk around us as if they know the end is close.
Suddenly, the small lead female with red fur raises her nose and darts off at full speed, taking the rest of the pack with her. We hear the bongo fleeing in a cacophony of leaves and branches. The dogs catch up and bay the bongo. Despite the fatigue, they stand strong against the aggressive bongo. It is the final rush for the hunters. We run as best we can through the vines, which scratch our arms and faces. A tunnel opens between the low branches, and the solitary is there, head lowered, facing the dogs. The hunter calmly raises his rifle to his shoulder, he’s side-on, ten meters away. The shot went off with a deafening echo.
The beautiful antelope collapses, struck down. It has come to offer itself to the hunters at the highest point of its territory, as if to honor its memory and make way for another bull. A group of turacos sings in the tall trees.
The hugs between the men are sincere, warm, full of brotherhood and respect. Everyone realizes how intense the effort has been. It is time for photos and to skin the animal. All the meat is loaded into baskets made on-site using vines. Each load weighs over 40 kg. I try to dissuade Robert, Oscar, Diky, Rodrigue, and the old Bado from carrying such heavy loads, but nothing works.
Only the stomach contents are left behind. I don’t know where they find the strength for this, as we still have several hours of walking to reach the 4×4. The GPS shows the vehicle is 11 kilometers away in a straight line. The return mission seems almost impossible since we need to clear a path through the jungle, which would take far too long. We decide to head towards the Baï Baboundou, four kilometers away. From there, we have a trail about nine kilometers long to the vehicle. It’s hard to express how harsh and exhausting the first part to the meadow was. We had to clear the path with machetes. The trackers, loaded like mules, keep stumbling under the weight, and the ropes of the vine baskets break regularly. We have to redo everything and keep going—walking, ducking, climbing, it’s just torture.
Our soaked pants hinder our movements. Once on the trail, each root becomes an insurmountable obstacle. The difficulty is at its peak, and there is no more pleasure. Again, the rain joins in, adding even more challenge to our ordeal. I remember suffering during a Derby eland hunt in the Central African Republic, but not to this extent. The environment in which the bongo lives is so difficult that it puts both body and morale to the test.
It’s 7 p.m., and night has already fallen when we reach the vehicle. That’s over 13 hours of effort. The last pygmies arrive 30 minutes later. I thank and congratulate each of them. The arrival at camp is around 8:30 p.m. The day lasted sixteen hours…
We are exhausted, but the hunter is still smiling. His good humor kept us going throughout this memorable day. I thank him for his trust and to have endured such an effort.
Is this the most physically and mentally difficult hunt of my career? Yes
Are we exhausted? Yes
Did we enjoy it? No
Are we happy? Yes
Would we do it again? No (and yet the story will unfold such that we will return to these hills)
Are we proud of this experience? Yes
Does big game hunting deserve to be this tough? I don’t think so.
Before everyone heads to bed, I take my loyal tracker, Robert, by the shoulder to thank him once again. He simply says, “We should never go there again, it’s too far, it’s where the turacos sing.”
