Storms Over Africa (32 page)

Crouching, they cut through the bush, watching for other animals that might run and scare the buffalo. They had to get in close. Richard felt an urgent tap on his arm and
froze. Greg pointed and he saw the head and neck of a giraffe off to their left. The animal was grazing on some sweet new leaves at the top of a tree and had its back to them. They all squatted down on their haunches, waiting for it to move off. Eventually it did but they stayed immobile for five minutes before moving on themselves.

They crept to within twenty metres of the two bulls before stopping. They had fair cover, a couple of scrubby bushes and the advantage of the land sloping down towards them. They were so close they could smell the cow-like scent of the animals, hear them pulling at the grass. Behind the two bulls the herd spread out, unaware of the presence of man. Richard assessed the bulls. The animal nearest them was a good size though not in world-record class. That did not matter. It was meat they were after. The most important thing was to drop the beast with the first shot, otherwise he would run. Even a couple of minutes made a difference as the adrenalin flowing in the animal's body tended to toughen the meat and give it a strong, gamy flavour.

Because he was head of the hunt, it was Richard's choice as to who should shoot. He knew he could drop the bull and he knew Greg could. Joseph was an unknown quantity. The bull was in good company and, unlike
other animals which, when wounded, instinctively head off and hide on their own, buffalo tended to stay with their herd, making if difficult to track them down and finish them off in relative safety. With the herd spread out as it was, it was impossible to guess which way they would run, although some dense bush about 300 metres off to the left seemed the most likely place. The second bull was also an unknown factor. He might run away, or he might charge. He decided to play safe. Tapping Greg's arm, he nodded towards the bull, holding up one finger to indicate he should take the one closest. Then, using sign language they developed between them during the war, he told Greg to take the shot and that he would act as backup.

Greg steadied himself for the shot, Richard held his gun ready and was pleased to see Joseph doing the same thing. The loud ‘bang' of the gun was closely followed by a ‘whock' as the bullet hit home. The buffalo staggered, sat down, then toppled to his side. The bull with him skittered sideways, snorting and tossing his head. Richard, flimsily screened by the bushes, kept him in his sights. The animal could not tell where the shot had come from. He churned in a full circle, then ran straight at their cover, head held high, trying to find something to charge. The three men froze. Richard's finger tightened on the trigger, ready
to fire. The animal veered off at the last minute and thundered away towards the dense sanctuary of thicket. The rest of the herd galloped after him.

They ran quickly up to the fallen animal, Greg reloading as he went. It was an unnecessary precaution. It had been a perfect shot. But he placed a second bullet in the animal's brain as insurance.

‘Good shooting, man,' Joseph thumped Greg's shoulder. His face was alight with excitement and his breathing, a little faster than normal, showing the release of tension which comes from being so close to such a formidable force.

Samson came running up, a wide smile on his face. ‘Eh heh, eh heh,' he chuckled, walking around the fallen buffalo. ‘Very good meat.'

‘Bit close.' Greg was referring to the second bull.

‘He had another tenth of a second before I fired,' Richard replied.

‘Certainly lets you know your heart's still working,' Greg grinned. ‘Mine's still in overdrive.'

Richard looked at Tshuma. The man had brought his gun to a firing position as soon as Greg had dropped the first bull. He had kept a cool head in the face of danger, had not panicked and run, or worse, fired off a wild shot.

It was good to know he could be relied on in a situation where anything could have happened, but it alerted Richard to his capabilities as an enemy. Tshuma glanced briefly at the fallen bull then concentrated his attention on the thicket in case there was a charge. Richard could have told him to forget it, the buffalo would not come out now, but he said nothing.

They left the animal where it lay. Samson and Philamon would come back in the lorry and skin it, cut it up and load it onto the truck. The meat would be hung back at camp. The skin would be salted and laid out to dry. The horns, if anybody wanted them, would be boiled in an old oil drum of water. Tomorrow they would make
biltong,
strips of meat soaked in salt, vinegar, herbs and spices overnight, then hung to dry in the desert-like air until it formed a hard crust, leaving the centre moist and delicious. There would be buffalo steaks all round tonight.

Steve was perched on the bonnet of the Land Rover taking pictures up through the trees. ‘Any luck?'

‘Greg got one,' Richard replied.

She felt a rush of sympathy for the animal but all she said was, ‘Mind if we stay another ten minutes? The light changes so much that each picture is completely different.'

Samson and Philamon left immediately in
the lorry. The animal had to be skinned quickly if the skin was to be saved. While Steve clicked off an exposure every minute, the rest gathered around the Land Rover smoking. Richard got the coffee and sandwiches from the back seat. ‘Damned fine shot,' he said to Greg.

‘Don't want it back.'

‘You can take the next one,' he told Joseph.

‘Good.'

Richard studied him. Most inexperienced hunters, when faced with a charge as they had been, would be showing some sign of fear or tension. Joseph appeared to be suffering from neither. ‘You say you've never hunted before?'

‘Not on safari like this. I potted a few things for meat during the war.'

‘You seemed to know what you were doing.' The man was cool, he had to give him that. He readjusted his assessment of him as an adversary. The more he discovered about Joseph Tshuma, the more he realised he made a formidable enemy.

Joseph shrugged. ‘Must be in the genes.'

Steve jumped down and joined them. ‘I heard two shots.'

‘A good hunter only needs one,' Richard told her. ‘Old Bwana Greg over here dropped that bull as clean as a whistle. The second shot was academic but it's a precaution you should always take with dangerous game.'

‘I thought the rest of them might run this way.' She poured coffee from the flask. ‘I had my camera ready but I didn't see one.'

‘They instinctively run away from the danger. There was some heavy bush nearby and they disappeared into it,' Greg said.

‘Poor things, they must be terrified.'

‘There's been a terrible drought here,' Greg replied kindly. ‘Game Department will know there are too many buffalo here, otherwise we'd not have been given a licence.'

‘We'd like to see their numbers reduced by a couple of hundred,' Joseph confirmed. ‘The land can't sustain them all.'

‘I know. I know,' she said sadly. ‘But they must still be terrified. I feel for them, that's all.'

Richard wisely said nothing.

They shared the coffee and sandwiches, standing on the dusty track, smelling the animals that had passed that way, listening to the birds and feeling the day warm rapidly as the sun rose and burned off the gentle dew and wiped the cool sepia tones from the sky. So quiet did they become, each one busy with their own thoughts, that a tiny Steenbok, no more than 45 centimetres tall, nearly stumbled over them as it emerged from the bush at the side of the road. It was halfway across the track, just in front of the vehicle, by the time it noticed them and it bounded away like a startled rabbit, its little tuft of a tail bobbing
in its frantic dash for safety. It stopped briefly to look back at them before disappearing into the bush.

On the way back to camp they saw a family of warthog make their busy way through the long grass, tails held perpendicular to their bodies, father in front, mother next, and three babies following. The babies were so small they were barely visible, only their skinny little tails sticking up through the grass as they trotted behind their parents. They paid no attention to the Land Rover, cutting through the bush towards their waterhole where they would enjoy a roll in the black, slimy mud which would keep their bodies cool during the heat of the day. ‘They're good eating,' Richard commented.

‘Will you shoot one?' Steve hated the idea of breaking up what was so obviously a happy family unit.

‘We have enough meat,' he said. ‘There's no need.'

And she realised that a good hunter was like all the other animals in the bush. He only took what he needed. Just because man was the most advanced animal, with technology on his side, did not make him any different to those he hunted. It just made him more efficient. She was finding she had no ethical problem with hunting for meat. Trophy hunting was another matter.

David and Penny were sitting on camp chairs when they got back. David was reading a novel, Penny was staring fixedly at the river. She looked up. ‘How'd you go?' Her eyes had a wild, unfocused look.

Richard looked sharply at her. ‘Where did you stick your nose?' he asked finally. ‘You've got powder or something on it.'

She sniffed, then rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. ‘I was poking around the supplies tent,' she lied. ‘I sneezed into the flour.'

Joseph turned and walked rapidly to their tent. Penny, with an apologetic smile, rose and followed him. They all heard the raised voices but no-one could make out the cause of the argument, except Richard swore he heard Joseph saying angrily, ‘You silly little bitch.' Joseph returned to the camp fire about twenty minutes later, having washed and changed, and offered no explanation for the heated exchange of words. Penny remained in the tent.

Samson and Philamon returned in the lorry and, while Philamon worked on the buffalo meat, Samson prepared breakfast. Richard called Penny for breakfast but Joseph told him curtly that she was asleep so, reluctantly, he left her.

‘What do we do now?' Steve asked. She was learning that the light in Africa was too harsh in the middle of the day for good photographs.
To get the moodiness she preferred in her shots she needed the softer light of morning and evening.

‘We loaf around here. We can go for a game drive. We can play cards or read. Whatever you like,' Richard said.

‘A pity we can't swim in the river.' She looked longingly at the cool water.

‘The flat dogs would have you inside ten minutes,' Greg told her.

‘Flat dogs! Is that what you call crocodiles? Not a bad description, they do look a bit like dogs. Dopey dogs.'

‘Don't be fooled. They're very efficient killers,' Greg warned. ‘I read somewhere that approximately ten people a day are killed by them in Africa.'

‘Surely people take precautions if they know crocodiles are around.'

‘They don't seem to. Women are the most vulnerable because traditionally it is their job to go to the river to collect water and to wash clothes. You often find bracelets and other women's trinkets in the stomach of a croc. It doesn't deter them though. Even after an attack you'll find people back in the same spot the next day.'

She turned to Joseph. ‘Why don't they take more care?'

‘That's hard to explain. It's to do with fatalism. Some people actually believe that a
crocodile that lives in their part of the river will only take visitors. If one of the local villagers is taken it is seen as a sign that the person was cursed. I suppose they've had to live with the threat all their lives so they don't see much point in worrying about it. What will happen, will happen.'

‘They're deceptive creatures. You wouldn't think by looking at them they could take a human. They seem so sluggish,' Steve said.

‘Remember the speed of the one at Kariba?' Richard reminded her.

‘A croc is supposed to be able to move over fifty kilometres an hour. A big croc stands around 120 centimetres high. They have incredibly powerful tails which they use to propel themselves out of the water and launch themselves at their intended victim. It's the kind of sight that has a tendency to paralyse you.' Greg pulled a fierce face to emphasise his point.

‘I thought they were nearing extinction.' Steve smiled at Greg's face. His eyes were crossed and he was smacking his lips. He looked absurdly comical. ‘There's been a ban on crocodile skin products for years in Australia.'

Greg allowed his face to return to normal. ‘It's a fallacy. Sure they've been shot out in some parts of Africa but in others, where they're protected, there are thousands of them.'

‘You seem to know a fair bit about them,' Richard commented.

‘I had a close encounter with one in the Shiré Valley in Malawi,' Greg grinned. ‘I have a friend up there who culls flat dogs for the government. He took me with him once. I tell you, it's an eerie feeling sitting in a tiny little boat at night surrounded by eyes which are saying “you're mine”.'

‘What happened?' Steve asked.

‘We'd shot six of them. Not big ones, youngsters around five years of age, between 120 and 180 centimetres. That's the size they're most commercially sought after.'

‘How can you be so precise about their age?' Steve asked. ‘In Australia the saltwater crocodiles are much bigger than the freshwater ones.'

‘African crocodiles grow thirty centimetres a year for the first five years. Then they slow right down and only grow two-and-a-half centimetres each year. If you come across a biggie, say, six metres or so, you'll know he's well over a hundred years old. That's how we tell their age.'

‘Thanks for that, Greg.' She made a note of it. ‘What happened then?'

‘We had to tie them to the side of the boat and get the hell out because the other flat dogs aren't fussy about what they eat and a dead brother or sister will do quite nicely thank you. We ran out of room around the sides of
the boat so we laid one of them across the stern. We'd been travelling about five minutes and the bloody thing came alive. He crawled up the boat and towards us and I swear his mouth was watering.'