Philip Ashby Hunting
The elephants of Mbaragandu
The end of 2006 hunting season was a new chapter in my hunting career as I finally pursued the greatest of the African big game. Something I was fascinated by, but reluctant to do, being of the opinion that Tanzania should not be hunting its bull elephant at present. However, I confirmed first hand that elephant hunting beats all of the other hunting (of wild game) I have done. I felt like one of the few and last lucky people able to experience first hand what I have read, romanticized, in wonderful old hunting books, walking for days on end, tracking, stalking and being charged by these wonderful huge, timid, but alternatively, ferocious beasts.
Likuyu Village and the Kikuyu River can be found on any good map of Tanzania to the South East in Songea Region, not far from the Livingstone Mountains and Lake Malawi. The hunting concession lies to the northeast of the village and is on the major watershed between the Rufiji River system to the north and the Ruvuma River system to the south. The Ruvuma River is the border between Tanzania and Mozambique and the Rufiji and its tributaries drain the Selous Game Reserve and much of central Tanzania. The Selous Game Reserve is named after Captain Fredrick Courtney Selous, naturalist, explorer, hunter and soldier. He volunteered as a scout for the allies in WW1 and was eventually killed by a sniper in the reserve during one of the greatest military campaigns of all time. It is the largest game reserve in the world, an incredibly wild place, great for wildlife viewing in the dry season, and exciting to explore.
Flying into the hunting block I was immediately impressed with the amount of water shimmering in numerous valleys. This is some of the most wild, isolated country I have ever explored. The soil is sandy and what once must have been a flat sandy plain has been cut by thousands of deep valleys leaving only sharp narrow wooded ridges. The few tracks in the area were once survey roads. Multinationals continue to search for oil in the area that is already known to have Uranium. We can only hope large-scale mining never follows, but it may. The access tracks run along the watersheds between the large rough drainage basins. Although more than four hundred kilometers inland, the altitude does not exceed nine hundred meters above sea level.
Tropical Miombo woodland clings to the slopes and riverine forest with huge emergent trees (Many Red Mahogany {Khaya nyasica} an important timber wood, used for dugout canoes. An infusion of the bark that tastes like quinine is used to treat colds.) tower seventy meters above the undergrowth in the valleys. Along the larger rivers huge liane creepers (Sea bean {Entada pursaetha} bearing enormous flat pods up to 2m long and 15cm wide. The large shiny seeds are washed up on beaches, hence the name) climb hundreds of meters through the canopy, their massive twisted stems, sometimes two meters in diameter, run along the ground and gently curve and coil through the shaded, cool gloom. The lack of thorns made striding through the game trails easier than in the arid northern savannah.
Many small sandy rivers flow gently from the valleys, eventually joining the huge open rivers of the southern Selous, like the Mbaragandu River from which the hunting block derives its name. In fact, the northern section of the hunting block is village land wedged between two Selous Game Reserve blocks.
Some of the higher valleys are scattered with stands of Paper-bark thorn (Acacia sieberiana), producing numerous pods in November. Once on the ground these release a strong scent of tar and burnt toffee. While I was in the area the elephant were gathering to feast on these nutritious pods and their dung was peppered with whole seed for dispersal. The smell emulates from a dark sticky substance that coats the inside of the pod. The pod shell along with this tar is all the animals use as the very hard seeds pass through. Many of the acacias can only germinate once the hard seed case is partially digested or weathered. Whenever we walked the tight little valleys where these trees were found, we would stumble into herds of elephant and have to skedaddle up the steep valley sides to avoid the inevitable surprise confrontation. On many occasions we would only realize the elephant’s presence at a few yards. With their earthy grey colour and a habit of standing absolutely still when aware, these massive beasts disappear, without moving, in the jess. (A term for tangled thick southern African undergrowth, particularly in the Zambezi valley.)
I was there because Rolf Rohwer had been badly horned by an irate wounded buffalo. That is his story and so if you are curious you need to look him up. All I will say is that he is a gentleman professional hunter of massive experience, who has some incredible experiences to recount.
He had two elephant hunts booked and hoped to recover in time to ensure they went ahead. In the meantime, I was recommended by a mutual friend, another of those dons of the profession, who has had his scrapes, France Coupe.
I was thrilled and honoured to be offered the opportunity to work with Rolf, whose reputation as one of the few old-school, ethical, fair chase hunters preceded him. The client is a very enthusiastic and experienced hunter from Poland, who, as he can’t speak English, is always accompanied by his agent. The agent, Paul Kardasz, has become a friend and is fun to hunt with. He has good connections with the profession as he is a relative of a well- respected Polish prince who became a successful professional hunter in the glory days and lived much of his life in Kenya.
A couple of days into the hunt, as I tried to get the hang of a crew of strangers and new territory, we concentrated on bait animals. Our first serious stalk after a buffalo herd became a game of cat and mouse as Mbaragandu revealed its eccentricities. We had spotted a herd of perhaps two hundred buffalo as they waded across one of the large sand rivers and headed into a thickly forested valley. There were very fresh lioness tracks in the riversand over the buffalo tracks. As we walked into the jess at the mouth of the valley we almost bumped into a small family of elephants, held up together and quiet, and had to back up and creep around and down wind of them.
African elephant are very social, spending all of their lives in matriarchal groups of related females and their young. The young bulls make a nuisance of themselves in the female dominated herds when they reach puberty or soon after, and are forced out by the mature females. This can be from the early teenage years to the early twenties.
The bulls generally gather in small bachelor groups, normally an older bull and two or three younger “askaris” or guards. They settle down to a peaceful and calm existence not bothering anybody and generally hiding away timidly unless disturbed. They are often half asleep, as though in a complete daze. The older bulls even show little interest in the matriarchal herds. This is as comfortable a scene as any gentleman’s club, however, every once in a while (I could not find information on the frequency of musth. It is, I am sure, dependent on age and condition.), mature bull elephants come into musth. The most reliable sign of musth is a small stream of urine dripping constantly from the penis and staining the inside of the back legs. They smell very strong and quite different from their normal odour. They become quite agitated and irritable and need to be given a wide berth.
Young bulls, therefore, are often the ones that are encountered on foot as in this case. Those in the process of ejection frequently skulk around the periphery of the breeding herd. As we crept through the jess, we nearly bumped into one's backside, having to slip away silently and circle further out.
We followed the buffalo spoor into the thick bush on the steep-sided valley floor. The still air in the valley was filling with the sound and smells of the herd as the morning breeze died. Soon, as we crept forward cautiously and began to make out the herd through the gloom, four or five lion erupted from a thicket, grunting and growling. They flew at the nearest buffalo. We were sure they would take one down. Our attention turned as we sought out a male lion, but we had spooked them and they trotted off empty-bellied over the ridge.
The buffalo were now very on edge and had turned towards us. Soon we were almost surrounded, but I could not pick out a mature trophy bull, so we had to slink back into the thicket to get out of their way. Zidi was determined and stood his ground. I had to drag him away. I was, as always, being too trophy conscious, and we probably should have just taken a young bull as we needed the bait. Not only that, the tracker thought I had left the client out on his own, exposed, as I moved back into the thicket, so now I was a coward in their minds too. Zidi had, of course, not understood what I had said when I told him to back up as I wanted the herd to stick around long enough for us to pick out the best for him. The commotion sent them crashing off through the undergrowth.
On a similar occasion, a week or so later, we spotted a smaller herd of buffalo one ridge over from us, as we cruised the ridge track southwest of camp. We needed to cross yet another steep valley in the fast-rising temperature of tropical mornings. This was a difficult stalk as we would be in sight of the buffalo for much of the time. I was surprised how easily we got across the valley when the old game scout and I had our attention drawn to the right of the herd where a couple of younger animals were frisking about. They seemed to be paying particular attention to a small depression near them on the edge of the ridge. Initially, I thought one was calving there and the rest of the herd were milling around waiting for her.
The game scout turned to me whispering, “kuna simba pale”.
I thought he may be on to something so we changed ammunition and crept in on the depression very carefully. About seven metres in front a golden head with flattened ears appeared in the lodged beige grass. For a split second everybody froze and glared then she gave a guttural growl and instantly was flying away floating over the uneven ground. Even if it had been a mature male I doubt whether any of us could have got in a shot.
The tracker affirmed that in order to find lion in Mbaragandu we needed to stay on the buffalo.
We caught up with Zidi’s elephant on the fifth day of his hunt. He had become adamant that he wanted to get one soon and was a little despondent with what we were seeing as we had not seen any good bulls, having stalked several that looked good from afar but were far from good up close.
It was luck really, as we drove down into a larger open river valley he was just starting up the far side, rolling up a game trail following a ridge. From where we were we could see that this was the best we had seen. We quickly stalked across the river and up the valley, downwind of the bull, and then up the steep slope to draw level with him. He seemed to sense us and quickened his pace. I realized he had a small body but he looked old and was moving ahead fast. I said what I thought to Zidi and he threw up his rifle. I was not happy as it was a quartering away shot at about sixty yards, but we were out in front and he did not understand me. I realized he was about to shoot for the heart and lungs and as I raised my rifle he fired. I fired high just below the bull’s hip joint and saw a puff of dust on the mark. I told Zidi to keep firing and as the bull turned he fired again into the other side of the chest.
Instantly, the elephant bull was around facing us and charging. By the time I was ready for my second shot he was half way to us. The game scout and I fired for the brain, but as we did the thigh I had hit shattered and his head went up. He then dropped his tusks and fell forward goring the ground with an irate scream. Zidi had shot well, but it was the broken leg that may have saved our lives.
Forty-eight hours later there was nothing left of this beautiful courageous mountain of an animal but bones. A pick-up load of villagers in rags were summoned. They cut huge slices of meat that they spread on a rack about three feet above a fire, the embers smoking it all. The smoked meat was then hauled back to the village to be sold for a community project.
Several days later I had found buffalo track on two occasions that led down into a deep, steep sided valley, but we had not followed them into the tangle of vegetation on the valley floor. One morning we set out early to explore the area, ending up in a beautiful forest of huge mahogany with enormous buttress roots. As we wound our way through these, along clear little streams, down a well-used game trail, I heard some exclamations and commotion at the back of the group. The next instant the two trackers were overtaking Zidi and Paul, who was carrying Zidi’s rifle. Zidi and Paul glanced over their shoulders and then flew passed me in a blur followed by the game scout. I had stepped off the path to let them pass, and as I stepped back onto it around a large tree I faced two charging bull elephants at twenty yards. They had winded us after we passed them in a thicket and were not happy to be surprised from their daydreaming.
I moved to the middle of the path and started to raise my rifle, shouting, “foetsak, toka” as I did.
I have no idea why I decided it wise to tell them to push off in “South African” and Kiswahili, but it needed no translation as the front bull now at about twenty feet stopped in surprise. He was almost knocked forward off his feet by the larger bull from behind. He turned broadside with his head up and tail straight out, he gave me an almost comical look of embarrassment, and confusion. They then both made off noisily crashing through the undergrowth.
This was the first time I had shouted down charging bull elephant and it took me a while to stop shaking, but by the time everybody else emerged I was taking a piss calmly behind a tree, much to their astonishment. They did not see how my hands were shaking.
Zidi returned home without a cat, having sat in several blind and having spent the worst night of my life with me. We built a tree meshan (a kind of blind off of the ground, this one was about two and a half metres off the ground) and spent the night in it, near a lion bait that had had good track.
The meshan was not comfortable and I could not sleep. We had elephant sniffing us a few feet away by midnight, and by three, a whole pride of lions had gathered around us. They roared for the rest of the night passing beneath us from all sides. It was truly terrifying. At first glimmer of light they melted away, a huge female the last to leave. Zidi was convinced it was a large male and furious that I did not let him shoot. I vowed to myself never to spend another night in a tree near lion. The last time I had done so a big male had tried climbing the ladder to us. This time, as I refuse to use a light, I had had to lie still all the while they prowled about me in the dark, out of fear of chasing them off. Horrible.
Zidi did take a wonderful old eland bull, reedbuck, kudu, duiker, three buffalo and elephant, not to mention a huge hippopotamus bull that I had to swim for in a pool full of hippo shit and where we saw a couple of large crocodile, a few yards from the rest of the hippo who had refused to leave.
Frank Cox was reassured by Rolf, after Zidi’s relative successes, and came on his hunt immediately after Zidi left. We were to walk much of the area and take the trackers into places they had never visited. Frank was very much a quality, not quantity man, and was prepared to walk all day. He was only interested in good old trophies of buffalo, Roosevelt sable and elephant.
His was a less eventful and all together calmer hunt. We eventually caught up with a very good elephant that I brained as it turned on us at thirty yards. Frank had heart shot it but we could not take any chances at such a close range.
I hope to go back to Mbaragandu soon. It is fascinating country full of surprises. I saw chequered elephant shrew, often, and caught a huge pangolin while I was there. It is one of the wildest and most beautiful parts of Africa I have seen.
Likuyu Village and the Kikuyu River can be found on any good map of Tanzania to the South East in Songea Region, not far from the Livingstone Mountains and Lake Malawi. The hunting concession lies to the northeast of the village and is on the major watershed between the Rufiji River system to the north and the Ruvuma River system to the south. The Ruvuma River is the border between Tanzania and Mozambique and the Rufiji and its tributaries drain the Selous Game Reserve and much of central Tanzania. The Selous Game Reserve is named after Captain Fredrick Courtney Selous, naturalist, explorer, hunter and soldier. He volunteered as a scout for the allies in WW1 and was eventually killed by a sniper in the reserve during one of the greatest military campaigns of all time. It is the largest game reserve in the world, an incredibly wild place, great for wildlife viewing in the dry season, and exciting to explore.
Flying into the hunting block I was immediately impressed with the amount of water shimmering in numerous valleys. This is some of the most wild, isolated country I have ever explored. The soil is sandy and what once must have been a flat sandy plain has been cut by thousands of deep valleys leaving only sharp narrow wooded ridges. The few tracks in the area were once survey roads. Multinationals continue to search for oil in the area that is already known to have Uranium. We can only hope large-scale mining never follows, but it may. The access tracks run along the watersheds between the large rough drainage basins. Although more than four hundred kilometers inland, the altitude does not exceed nine hundred meters above sea level.
Tropical Miombo woodland clings to the slopes and riverine forest with huge emergent trees (Many Red Mahogany {Khaya nyasica} an important timber wood, used for dugout canoes. An infusion of the bark that tastes like quinine is used to treat colds.) tower seventy meters above the undergrowth in the valleys. Along the larger rivers huge liane creepers (Sea bean {Entada pursaetha} bearing enormous flat pods up to 2m long and 15cm wide. The large shiny seeds are washed up on beaches, hence the name) climb hundreds of meters through the canopy, their massive twisted stems, sometimes two meters in diameter, run along the ground and gently curve and coil through the shaded, cool gloom. The lack of thorns made striding through the game trails easier than in the arid northern savannah.
Many small sandy rivers flow gently from the valleys, eventually joining the huge open rivers of the southern Selous, like the Mbaragandu River from which the hunting block derives its name. In fact, the northern section of the hunting block is village land wedged between two Selous Game Reserve blocks.
Some of the higher valleys are scattered with stands of Paper-bark thorn (Acacia sieberiana), producing numerous pods in November. Once on the ground these release a strong scent of tar and burnt toffee. While I was in the area the elephant were gathering to feast on these nutritious pods and their dung was peppered with whole seed for dispersal. The smell emulates from a dark sticky substance that coats the inside of the pod. The pod shell along with this tar is all the animals use as the very hard seeds pass through. Many of the acacias can only germinate once the hard seed case is partially digested or weathered. Whenever we walked the tight little valleys where these trees were found, we would stumble into herds of elephant and have to skedaddle up the steep valley sides to avoid the inevitable surprise confrontation. On many occasions we would only realize the elephant’s presence at a few yards. With their earthy grey colour and a habit of standing absolutely still when aware, these massive beasts disappear, without moving, in the jess. (A term for tangled thick southern African undergrowth, particularly in the Zambezi valley.)
I was there because Rolf Rohwer had been badly horned by an irate wounded buffalo. That is his story and so if you are curious you need to look him up. All I will say is that he is a gentleman professional hunter of massive experience, who has some incredible experiences to recount.
He had two elephant hunts booked and hoped to recover in time to ensure they went ahead. In the meantime, I was recommended by a mutual friend, another of those dons of the profession, who has had his scrapes, France Coupe.
I was thrilled and honoured to be offered the opportunity to work with Rolf, whose reputation as one of the few old-school, ethical, fair chase hunters preceded him. The client is a very enthusiastic and experienced hunter from Poland, who, as he can’t speak English, is always accompanied by his agent. The agent, Paul Kardasz, has become a friend and is fun to hunt with. He has good connections with the profession as he is a relative of a well- respected Polish prince who became a successful professional hunter in the glory days and lived much of his life in Kenya.
A couple of days into the hunt, as I tried to get the hang of a crew of strangers and new territory, we concentrated on bait animals. Our first serious stalk after a buffalo herd became a game of cat and mouse as Mbaragandu revealed its eccentricities. We had spotted a herd of perhaps two hundred buffalo as they waded across one of the large sand rivers and headed into a thickly forested valley. There were very fresh lioness tracks in the riversand over the buffalo tracks. As we walked into the jess at the mouth of the valley we almost bumped into a small family of elephants, held up together and quiet, and had to back up and creep around and down wind of them.
African elephant are very social, spending all of their lives in matriarchal groups of related females and their young. The young bulls make a nuisance of themselves in the female dominated herds when they reach puberty or soon after, and are forced out by the mature females. This can be from the early teenage years to the early twenties.
The bulls generally gather in small bachelor groups, normally an older bull and two or three younger “askaris” or guards. They settle down to a peaceful and calm existence not bothering anybody and generally hiding away timidly unless disturbed. They are often half asleep, as though in a complete daze. The older bulls even show little interest in the matriarchal herds. This is as comfortable a scene as any gentleman’s club, however, every once in a while (I could not find information on the frequency of musth. It is, I am sure, dependent on age and condition.), mature bull elephants come into musth. The most reliable sign of musth is a small stream of urine dripping constantly from the penis and staining the inside of the back legs. They smell very strong and quite different from their normal odour. They become quite agitated and irritable and need to be given a wide berth.
Young bulls, therefore, are often the ones that are encountered on foot as in this case. Those in the process of ejection frequently skulk around the periphery of the breeding herd. As we crept through the jess, we nearly bumped into one's backside, having to slip away silently and circle further out.
We followed the buffalo spoor into the thick bush on the steep-sided valley floor. The still air in the valley was filling with the sound and smells of the herd as the morning breeze died. Soon, as we crept forward cautiously and began to make out the herd through the gloom, four or five lion erupted from a thicket, grunting and growling. They flew at the nearest buffalo. We were sure they would take one down. Our attention turned as we sought out a male lion, but we had spooked them and they trotted off empty-bellied over the ridge.
The buffalo were now very on edge and had turned towards us. Soon we were almost surrounded, but I could not pick out a mature trophy bull, so we had to slink back into the thicket to get out of their way. Zidi was determined and stood his ground. I had to drag him away. I was, as always, being too trophy conscious, and we probably should have just taken a young bull as we needed the bait. Not only that, the tracker thought I had left the client out on his own, exposed, as I moved back into the thicket, so now I was a coward in their minds too. Zidi had, of course, not understood what I had said when I told him to back up as I wanted the herd to stick around long enough for us to pick out the best for him. The commotion sent them crashing off through the undergrowth.
On a similar occasion, a week or so later, we spotted a smaller herd of buffalo one ridge over from us, as we cruised the ridge track southwest of camp. We needed to cross yet another steep valley in the fast-rising temperature of tropical mornings. This was a difficult stalk as we would be in sight of the buffalo for much of the time. I was surprised how easily we got across the valley when the old game scout and I had our attention drawn to the right of the herd where a couple of younger animals were frisking about. They seemed to be paying particular attention to a small depression near them on the edge of the ridge. Initially, I thought one was calving there and the rest of the herd were milling around waiting for her.
The game scout turned to me whispering, “kuna simba pale”.
I thought he may be on to something so we changed ammunition and crept in on the depression very carefully. About seven metres in front a golden head with flattened ears appeared in the lodged beige grass. For a split second everybody froze and glared then she gave a guttural growl and instantly was flying away floating over the uneven ground. Even if it had been a mature male I doubt whether any of us could have got in a shot.
The tracker affirmed that in order to find lion in Mbaragandu we needed to stay on the buffalo.
We caught up with Zidi’s elephant on the fifth day of his hunt. He had become adamant that he wanted to get one soon and was a little despondent with what we were seeing as we had not seen any good bulls, having stalked several that looked good from afar but were far from good up close.
It was luck really, as we drove down into a larger open river valley he was just starting up the far side, rolling up a game trail following a ridge. From where we were we could see that this was the best we had seen. We quickly stalked across the river and up the valley, downwind of the bull, and then up the steep slope to draw level with him. He seemed to sense us and quickened his pace. I realized he had a small body but he looked old and was moving ahead fast. I said what I thought to Zidi and he threw up his rifle. I was not happy as it was a quartering away shot at about sixty yards, but we were out in front and he did not understand me. I realized he was about to shoot for the heart and lungs and as I raised my rifle he fired. I fired high just below the bull’s hip joint and saw a puff of dust on the mark. I told Zidi to keep firing and as the bull turned he fired again into the other side of the chest.
Instantly, the elephant bull was around facing us and charging. By the time I was ready for my second shot he was half way to us. The game scout and I fired for the brain, but as we did the thigh I had hit shattered and his head went up. He then dropped his tusks and fell forward goring the ground with an irate scream. Zidi had shot well, but it was the broken leg that may have saved our lives.
Forty-eight hours later there was nothing left of this beautiful courageous mountain of an animal but bones. A pick-up load of villagers in rags were summoned. They cut huge slices of meat that they spread on a rack about three feet above a fire, the embers smoking it all. The smoked meat was then hauled back to the village to be sold for a community project.
Several days later I had found buffalo track on two occasions that led down into a deep, steep sided valley, but we had not followed them into the tangle of vegetation on the valley floor. One morning we set out early to explore the area, ending up in a beautiful forest of huge mahogany with enormous buttress roots. As we wound our way through these, along clear little streams, down a well-used game trail, I heard some exclamations and commotion at the back of the group. The next instant the two trackers were overtaking Zidi and Paul, who was carrying Zidi’s rifle. Zidi and Paul glanced over their shoulders and then flew passed me in a blur followed by the game scout. I had stepped off the path to let them pass, and as I stepped back onto it around a large tree I faced two charging bull elephants at twenty yards. They had winded us after we passed them in a thicket and were not happy to be surprised from their daydreaming.
I moved to the middle of the path and started to raise my rifle, shouting, “foetsak, toka” as I did.
I have no idea why I decided it wise to tell them to push off in “South African” and Kiswahili, but it needed no translation as the front bull now at about twenty feet stopped in surprise. He was almost knocked forward off his feet by the larger bull from behind. He turned broadside with his head up and tail straight out, he gave me an almost comical look of embarrassment, and confusion. They then both made off noisily crashing through the undergrowth.
This was the first time I had shouted down charging bull elephant and it took me a while to stop shaking, but by the time everybody else emerged I was taking a piss calmly behind a tree, much to their astonishment. They did not see how my hands were shaking.
Zidi returned home without a cat, having sat in several blind and having spent the worst night of my life with me. We built a tree meshan (a kind of blind off of the ground, this one was about two and a half metres off the ground) and spent the night in it, near a lion bait that had had good track.
The meshan was not comfortable and I could not sleep. We had elephant sniffing us a few feet away by midnight, and by three, a whole pride of lions had gathered around us. They roared for the rest of the night passing beneath us from all sides. It was truly terrifying. At first glimmer of light they melted away, a huge female the last to leave. Zidi was convinced it was a large male and furious that I did not let him shoot. I vowed to myself never to spend another night in a tree near lion. The last time I had done so a big male had tried climbing the ladder to us. This time, as I refuse to use a light, I had had to lie still all the while they prowled about me in the dark, out of fear of chasing them off. Horrible.
Zidi did take a wonderful old eland bull, reedbuck, kudu, duiker, three buffalo and elephant, not to mention a huge hippopotamus bull that I had to swim for in a pool full of hippo shit and where we saw a couple of large crocodile, a few yards from the rest of the hippo who had refused to leave.
Frank Cox was reassured by Rolf, after Zidi’s relative successes, and came on his hunt immediately after Zidi left. We were to walk much of the area and take the trackers into places they had never visited. Frank was very much a quality, not quantity man, and was prepared to walk all day. He was only interested in good old trophies of buffalo, Roosevelt sable and elephant.
His was a less eventful and all together calmer hunt. We eventually caught up with a very good elephant that I brained as it turned on us at thirty yards. Frank had heart shot it but we could not take any chances at such a close range.
I hope to go back to Mbaragandu soon. It is fascinating country full of surprises. I saw chequered elephant shrew, often, and caught a huge pangolin while I was there. It is one of the wildest and most beautiful parts of Africa I have seen.
How not to Hippo on the Luwegu
It started with a delegation of trackers at 8pm as we were gathering around the fire before dinner on the first night in camp. The camp is on the confluence of the Luwegu River and another wide dry sand riverbed, a little south of where the Luwegu joins the Mbaragandu River. This is really out there, as wild as it gets anywhere.
We were there to hunt Kiboko (Hippo) and croc primarily. In July, the river meanders through sand banks a thousand yards across, patched with green grazing. The camp is situated in the shady tree line on the collapsing soil-high water bank overlooking the broad expanse of the Luwegu. The sand banks are scattered with game in the evenings. The sunset was clear with a radiant orange, violet and blue sky. The stacked, silver-rimmed, warm, glowing clouds colored the rippled flowing river. A Goliath Heron rasped as it stood silhouetted at the water's edge.
The nights are a cacophony of kiboko, hyena and lion. I could only just make out the trackers in the dark. There was a tall, chiseled Mkuria ,who are known for their impertinence. He knew everything already, it turned out, and was a mixer from behind the scenes. The two local lads were short and stocky as they often are down in those parts. The younger fellow proved an excellent tracker and hard working, a Maasai, who informed me that he is an apprentice professional hunter. He was wise enough to stay out of the delegation.
After the required greeting away from ears in the dark the trackers wanted to know; as we were after hippo and were unlikely to find the bull we wanted on the hills and as the river was full of croc and bearing in mind the death of a fellow tracker lost to the Luwegu crocs while retrieving a hippo only last year, added financial incentive would be required.
Basically they were preparing for the worst, knowing we would probably have to wade or swim in the river to retrieve the hippo. Hippo can be shot in the water, but it is a difficult shot at a small target. Once they are dead they immediately sink, but float to the surface within a couple of hours as the bacteria in their gut continues to ferment the contents and produce gasses. The carcass is then moved down river by the current until it comes to rest against some log or sand bank and retrieved by a swimmer who ties a rope to it so that it can be pulled to the bank.
These were all new staff to me, and the general impression I had of the camp seemed to indicate that they were used to liberal leniency. If they had known me better, they would not have approached me in the same way.
A professional hunter is very much a team leader. The team being all of the staff in camp who are required for all creature comforts and necessities, the bush team, including the driver and trackers, and the government game scout. The hunting is, on most safaris, the most important aspect. If the hunting goes well, the camp can be basic, unless the hunters are to be accompanied by more delicate or discerning family or friends.
One important member of the team was maneuvering for a large gratuity. I wanted to hit the roof but played it cool. It was nice of them to come out and say it, but I mumbled nothing and moved back to my drink, the fire and the regular waiting on Doc and dinner. I was tired and recovering from one dose of malaria, while unknowingly sinking into the next, which hit as I arrived home at the end of the trip.
I could have easily taken only one tracker, but I needed to get to know them all, and they would be needed for hippo. No divide and rule option. We set off early the next morning and had no choice but to try for hippo as Doc wanted the trophy and we needed bait for croc. We only had four days in the area and needed to get on with it. Bear in mind, hippo are the most deadly of Africa’s big game and out of the water, if you are seen, will often charge. They can cut you in half with one snap. Their twelve trophy tusks are almost entirely for fighting, and hardly ever used for feeding.
We stalked the river, tense and quiet, through thick dark riverine bush and forest full of hippo trails. These are uniquely wide and often have a ridge of grass running down the middle of the path giving them the appearance of a miniature dual carriageway, as the hippo’s legs are some distance apart. Hippos spend most of the day lounging about in water, commuting long distances each night to the nearest green grass to graze. If you are early enough you may catch one on the commute at dawn. Sometimes you may find them resting on a sandbank in the sun, but they will rush headlong into the water at the first sign of danger be it a birds alarm call or the smallest whiff of human.
The Luwego is beautiful, especially at first light. Slightly muddied, brown, cool water ripples past golden sand banks rimmed with patches of shady green pod mahogany, bohemia and fig. At this point we were walking on adrenalin though, the river being only a couple of hundred yards across and the bank we were creeping along rising gently from the water. It is backed by a vlei that would become part of the river in flood. This made for difficult access without being noticed by the Egyptian geese, herons, hadida ibis, waterbuck or impala ever-present on the green fringe of the still wet vlei.
We disturbed baboon, banded mongoose and crested guinea fowl in the thick riverine forest, all of them needing to be pushed away without their giving the full alarm. We froze each time we saw or heard them scuttling through the autumn leaves on the ground. Then as they got too close I would make small movements so they were aware of a presence but not frightened into shrieking with alarm. The baboons did set off noisily, so we rested and waited for calm to return to the surrounds. Both the guinea fowl and banded mongoose were only mildly disturbed and moved off making indignant little clucks or chuckles respectively. This is work of unusual intensity, as the entire body is at the apex of alertness, every little muscle is held in readiness as you stalk. All five of us tried not to make a sound.
We did not find a bull hippo out and I reluctantly prepared to take a bull in the water from one of the pods nearby. The difficulty in retrieving the beast is only half of it, more difficult still is selecting a bull and ensuring the shooter knows which one it is in a constantly moving pod of tightly packed hippo heads that all look much the same. The angle must be perfect and the bull needs to raise his head a bit to expose the hollow under his ear for the side shot. An alternative is between the eyes, but this is the small side of the brain and a smaller target. Not a good option at the distance and angle Doc would need to shoot.
We stalked through the cover and set up for the shot with patience, careful gesticulating and intense whispering. Finally, now at mid-morning, all was in place and Doc fired through the cover. He missed that first shot as the hippo moved as he fired. The bullet ricocheted off the water and smacked into the cliff behind.
The hippo erupted into motion, churning the water in a frantic effort to find us and assume a defensive formation. They did not move far and we were able to approach them again.
The opposite bank a of the Luwegu is a vertical cliff at that point, rising twenty feet from the water, which slows into a gentle swirling pool at its curved base. A watery fifteen-foot deep cave undercuts the cliff, which curls out into the water pushing the flow away to cut into the opposite sandbank. On the up-stream side of the mouth of the cave, a rock ledge, just large enough to accommodate a resting beached hippo, slopes gently out into the water, the red sand left on it by the receding river was catching the mid-morning sun.
The hippo moved up stream and halfway into the river between the cliff and a large sand bank. Now we had to throw all caution to the wind and stride out onto the sand in full view of the pod. I was on guard as they were a little pissed and I was looking out for a charge. None came, but the body language was certainly antagonistic. Unbelievably, the pod stood their ground and allowed us to within seventy yards.
There were two mature bulls with the pod but only one was a trophy. He now showed his true colours as he wisely moved to the back behind the cows with their young. We would get a shot and with Doc’s scoped .500/.416 well-sighted it would be no problem so long as he gave us a target. We set up the sticks for the Doc and I carefully pointed out the bull, coaching all the time as to where he was and exactly what he was doing. Finally, he lifted his head clear, side on. Perfect, but no shot came until he had started to turn. I never did find out exactly where that bullet struck, but as the confusion erupted again, I had seen enough to be concerned about it.
Anybody who has witnessed the full power and mass of an enraged pod of hippo as it erupts from sleepy cumbersome immobile solid lumps in the water to froth and foam and spray will never forget it. Imprinted in your mind's eye forever will remain the overwhelming power of an instant. Each adult, three tons, that appears so lazy when resting, can push up a bow wave a foot high. They snort very loudly and the air bursting from their noses billows up a plume of spray eight feet above them.
Blood and water flowed from the target bull’s nose. I was looking for the charge again. Again, none came. We were trying hard to keep tabs on the bull in the confusion. He moved away towards the cliff and cave. In desperation as Doc tried to find him in the scope, I pulled off three shots as he moved through the water with my open sighted Winchester .416. All missed by a diminishing fraction, the last whistling through the neck skin. All skipped of the river just short, as he moved fast and low in the water, and smacked into the rocks now only two yards behind him.
The hippo made the cave and disappeared into the gloom. I could just make out the top of his head under the overhanging rock. Doc could just make him out, too, so we moved the shooting sticks. After careful discussion, Doc squeezed off a shot aiming with the angle just below the right eye. The Krighoff roared and the .500/.416 solid slammed home. It was an incredible shot! The hippo’s head dropped like a stone before the echo died. Now I was wondering if we had done the right thing? The animal was wounded and as always, the quicker it is finished the less the suffering. However the carcass, now out of sight, was in a cave across a crocodile infested river. Could I have waited for the hippo to move back out into the river? Would it have moved back into the river?
I asked the trackers about the cave and was informed that the water there was very deep, perhaps twenty feet deep. And that the cave was also the home of all the big croc of the Luwegu. That cave was beginning to look rather menacing.
There was no alternative but to wait out the hour and a half or so that the carcass would take to rise to the surface, hoping it would drift with the current into shallower water, down stream.
I studied the cave with growing concern because to me it looked like the carcass could lodge up against the roof of the cave, the current that seamed to split and circle into the cave could hold it there indefinitely.
While I stared into the cave I noticed a rounded rock just breaking the surface in the cave. I was sure it was the hippo’s belly and a long discussion ensued punctuated by swapping various magnifications of Swarovski binoculars.
I chose this time to venture the idea that some of us could try to forge the river and extract the three-ton trophy from its lodgings. No, no, no, no, not a good plan, suicidal in fact! Hundreds of reasons came up. It was far more sensible to simply wait for crocs to dislodge the carcass when they feed that night, then we would find it washed up downstream the next morning…
I was not convinced and spent an age trying to see any movement of the rock, that I was sure was the hippo, in order to see if it was buoyant yet. I could not be sure, but it seemed to be bobbing about slightly. There were still about twenty hippos that had no intention of budging from the deeper water in front of the cave, naturally.
The rock was the hippo, we finally all agreed, but was it moving? OK, this was it. Plan A: we fire a few rounds into the water near the hippo hoping that either the others move away or their stirrings will send a wave large enough into the cave to dislodge the carcass. Plan B: if that didn’t work we would cross the river and climb down the cliff into the cave, trying to swim over from the little ledge at the cave entrance and get a rope onto it before the crocs could eat us. It was, after all, suicidal and so I could not ask anybody else to try. One small set back, we have no rope, none even in camp. I sent the pick-up back to camp to collect as much sisal twine as they could and then started on Doc, trying everything to have him agree to stay behind and guard our backs. This took some doing, seriously firm doing.
Doc started firing a few rounds near to the hippo pod. They created quite a commotion, but they refused to move away and the lump in the cave didn’t budge.
I had scouted out the river and the best crossing appeared to be a little way up stream. Four trackers and I stripped down to our underwear and after firing a couple of rounds into the water to scare away any lurking crocs waded out into the river. The trackers had said that the water would be deep in places and we may have to swim, which would be difficult carrying my boots and rifle, but as it turned out I had picked a good spot and the deepest water was only just above my knees.
Doc was pissed at my refusing to let him come across with us but he kept guard from the bank looking for any danger from hippo or croc. Once we had walked back down the opposite bank and up along the cliff we were overlooking the hippo pod, gathering stones and harassing them into giving way. The trackers accuracy was on display as every time a snout broke the surface a stone would strike within inches. They were stubborn but eventually split half the pod moving off upstream and the rest down stream. They didn’t go far, but it was enough.
We then cut down two medium sized trees, hauling them over to the cliff and then maneuvering them so we could use them as a ladder to climb down onto the ledge at the caves mouth. We had to make thirty-foot ropes by joining ten strands of the twine together. This we attached to a tree above the cliff. It was our safety line.
Three of us climbed down onto the ledge with my rifle, keeping an eye on the agitated kiboko nearby. Now, with all the hype over the cave I would need to swim over to the carcass. I fired one more shot into the cave to scare off any of the massive crocs reputed to live in there. I have never been brave about water when I can’t see the bottom, so my mouth was dry as I waded in. The water only came up to my kidneys! I had the rope so that I could be hauled back to the ledge and wouldn’t be washed along the cliff. What an anti-climax it was, and what a relief!
It was strange maneuvering this huge beast, remembering all of the scary stories of dead animals jumping to life, and crocs attacking in the back of the mind. The cold skin was firm and leathery soft, its' size daunting.
We tied the strengthened twine to the trophy and set off back to the other side, wading through deep water with hippo on either side of us, staring menacingly. It was as I was halfway across the river with my boots in one hand, and rifle in the other, that I remembered a corny advert for boots that has an almost identical picture of the Hulk Hogan look-alike professional hunter, John Sharp, crossing a river in the same way. And then I remembered that on this occasion Patrick was filming it all. How embarrassing to be caught on video doing all this dramatic macho stuff. I was cringing at the thought of it. I immediately opened negotiations for the editing rights.
It was dark by the time we had the kiboko beached and dismembered. I spent the evening standing guard over the crew as they chopped and cut the carcass into more manageable portions in waist deep water with the rest of the pod forty yards away, looking on. We didn’t even have time for the trophy photo, but what a relief to have the bait in the river and the trophy in camp.
We were there to hunt Kiboko (Hippo) and croc primarily. In July, the river meanders through sand banks a thousand yards across, patched with green grazing. The camp is situated in the shady tree line on the collapsing soil-high water bank overlooking the broad expanse of the Luwegu. The sand banks are scattered with game in the evenings. The sunset was clear with a radiant orange, violet and blue sky. The stacked, silver-rimmed, warm, glowing clouds colored the rippled flowing river. A Goliath Heron rasped as it stood silhouetted at the water's edge.
The nights are a cacophony of kiboko, hyena and lion. I could only just make out the trackers in the dark. There was a tall, chiseled Mkuria ,who are known for their impertinence. He knew everything already, it turned out, and was a mixer from behind the scenes. The two local lads were short and stocky as they often are down in those parts. The younger fellow proved an excellent tracker and hard working, a Maasai, who informed me that he is an apprentice professional hunter. He was wise enough to stay out of the delegation.
After the required greeting away from ears in the dark the trackers wanted to know; as we were after hippo and were unlikely to find the bull we wanted on the hills and as the river was full of croc and bearing in mind the death of a fellow tracker lost to the Luwegu crocs while retrieving a hippo only last year, added financial incentive would be required.
Basically they were preparing for the worst, knowing we would probably have to wade or swim in the river to retrieve the hippo. Hippo can be shot in the water, but it is a difficult shot at a small target. Once they are dead they immediately sink, but float to the surface within a couple of hours as the bacteria in their gut continues to ferment the contents and produce gasses. The carcass is then moved down river by the current until it comes to rest against some log or sand bank and retrieved by a swimmer who ties a rope to it so that it can be pulled to the bank.
These were all new staff to me, and the general impression I had of the camp seemed to indicate that they were used to liberal leniency. If they had known me better, they would not have approached me in the same way.
A professional hunter is very much a team leader. The team being all of the staff in camp who are required for all creature comforts and necessities, the bush team, including the driver and trackers, and the government game scout. The hunting is, on most safaris, the most important aspect. If the hunting goes well, the camp can be basic, unless the hunters are to be accompanied by more delicate or discerning family or friends.
One important member of the team was maneuvering for a large gratuity. I wanted to hit the roof but played it cool. It was nice of them to come out and say it, but I mumbled nothing and moved back to my drink, the fire and the regular waiting on Doc and dinner. I was tired and recovering from one dose of malaria, while unknowingly sinking into the next, which hit as I arrived home at the end of the trip.
I could have easily taken only one tracker, but I needed to get to know them all, and they would be needed for hippo. No divide and rule option. We set off early the next morning and had no choice but to try for hippo as Doc wanted the trophy and we needed bait for croc. We only had four days in the area and needed to get on with it. Bear in mind, hippo are the most deadly of Africa’s big game and out of the water, if you are seen, will often charge. They can cut you in half with one snap. Their twelve trophy tusks are almost entirely for fighting, and hardly ever used for feeding.
We stalked the river, tense and quiet, through thick dark riverine bush and forest full of hippo trails. These are uniquely wide and often have a ridge of grass running down the middle of the path giving them the appearance of a miniature dual carriageway, as the hippo’s legs are some distance apart. Hippos spend most of the day lounging about in water, commuting long distances each night to the nearest green grass to graze. If you are early enough you may catch one on the commute at dawn. Sometimes you may find them resting on a sandbank in the sun, but they will rush headlong into the water at the first sign of danger be it a birds alarm call or the smallest whiff of human.
The Luwego is beautiful, especially at first light. Slightly muddied, brown, cool water ripples past golden sand banks rimmed with patches of shady green pod mahogany, bohemia and fig. At this point we were walking on adrenalin though, the river being only a couple of hundred yards across and the bank we were creeping along rising gently from the water. It is backed by a vlei that would become part of the river in flood. This made for difficult access without being noticed by the Egyptian geese, herons, hadida ibis, waterbuck or impala ever-present on the green fringe of the still wet vlei.
We disturbed baboon, banded mongoose and crested guinea fowl in the thick riverine forest, all of them needing to be pushed away without their giving the full alarm. We froze each time we saw or heard them scuttling through the autumn leaves on the ground. Then as they got too close I would make small movements so they were aware of a presence but not frightened into shrieking with alarm. The baboons did set off noisily, so we rested and waited for calm to return to the surrounds. Both the guinea fowl and banded mongoose were only mildly disturbed and moved off making indignant little clucks or chuckles respectively. This is work of unusual intensity, as the entire body is at the apex of alertness, every little muscle is held in readiness as you stalk. All five of us tried not to make a sound.
We did not find a bull hippo out and I reluctantly prepared to take a bull in the water from one of the pods nearby. The difficulty in retrieving the beast is only half of it, more difficult still is selecting a bull and ensuring the shooter knows which one it is in a constantly moving pod of tightly packed hippo heads that all look much the same. The angle must be perfect and the bull needs to raise his head a bit to expose the hollow under his ear for the side shot. An alternative is between the eyes, but this is the small side of the brain and a smaller target. Not a good option at the distance and angle Doc would need to shoot.
We stalked through the cover and set up for the shot with patience, careful gesticulating and intense whispering. Finally, now at mid-morning, all was in place and Doc fired through the cover. He missed that first shot as the hippo moved as he fired. The bullet ricocheted off the water and smacked into the cliff behind.
The hippo erupted into motion, churning the water in a frantic effort to find us and assume a defensive formation. They did not move far and we were able to approach them again.
The opposite bank a of the Luwegu is a vertical cliff at that point, rising twenty feet from the water, which slows into a gentle swirling pool at its curved base. A watery fifteen-foot deep cave undercuts the cliff, which curls out into the water pushing the flow away to cut into the opposite sandbank. On the up-stream side of the mouth of the cave, a rock ledge, just large enough to accommodate a resting beached hippo, slopes gently out into the water, the red sand left on it by the receding river was catching the mid-morning sun.
The hippo moved up stream and halfway into the river between the cliff and a large sand bank. Now we had to throw all caution to the wind and stride out onto the sand in full view of the pod. I was on guard as they were a little pissed and I was looking out for a charge. None came, but the body language was certainly antagonistic. Unbelievably, the pod stood their ground and allowed us to within seventy yards.
There were two mature bulls with the pod but only one was a trophy. He now showed his true colours as he wisely moved to the back behind the cows with their young. We would get a shot and with Doc’s scoped .500/.416 well-sighted it would be no problem so long as he gave us a target. We set up the sticks for the Doc and I carefully pointed out the bull, coaching all the time as to where he was and exactly what he was doing. Finally, he lifted his head clear, side on. Perfect, but no shot came until he had started to turn. I never did find out exactly where that bullet struck, but as the confusion erupted again, I had seen enough to be concerned about it.
Anybody who has witnessed the full power and mass of an enraged pod of hippo as it erupts from sleepy cumbersome immobile solid lumps in the water to froth and foam and spray will never forget it. Imprinted in your mind's eye forever will remain the overwhelming power of an instant. Each adult, three tons, that appears so lazy when resting, can push up a bow wave a foot high. They snort very loudly and the air bursting from their noses billows up a plume of spray eight feet above them.
Blood and water flowed from the target bull’s nose. I was looking for the charge again. Again, none came. We were trying hard to keep tabs on the bull in the confusion. He moved away towards the cliff and cave. In desperation as Doc tried to find him in the scope, I pulled off three shots as he moved through the water with my open sighted Winchester .416. All missed by a diminishing fraction, the last whistling through the neck skin. All skipped of the river just short, as he moved fast and low in the water, and smacked into the rocks now only two yards behind him.
The hippo made the cave and disappeared into the gloom. I could just make out the top of his head under the overhanging rock. Doc could just make him out, too, so we moved the shooting sticks. After careful discussion, Doc squeezed off a shot aiming with the angle just below the right eye. The Krighoff roared and the .500/.416 solid slammed home. It was an incredible shot! The hippo’s head dropped like a stone before the echo died. Now I was wondering if we had done the right thing? The animal was wounded and as always, the quicker it is finished the less the suffering. However the carcass, now out of sight, was in a cave across a crocodile infested river. Could I have waited for the hippo to move back out into the river? Would it have moved back into the river?
I asked the trackers about the cave and was informed that the water there was very deep, perhaps twenty feet deep. And that the cave was also the home of all the big croc of the Luwegu. That cave was beginning to look rather menacing.
There was no alternative but to wait out the hour and a half or so that the carcass would take to rise to the surface, hoping it would drift with the current into shallower water, down stream.
I studied the cave with growing concern because to me it looked like the carcass could lodge up against the roof of the cave, the current that seamed to split and circle into the cave could hold it there indefinitely.
While I stared into the cave I noticed a rounded rock just breaking the surface in the cave. I was sure it was the hippo’s belly and a long discussion ensued punctuated by swapping various magnifications of Swarovski binoculars.
I chose this time to venture the idea that some of us could try to forge the river and extract the three-ton trophy from its lodgings. No, no, no, no, not a good plan, suicidal in fact! Hundreds of reasons came up. It was far more sensible to simply wait for crocs to dislodge the carcass when they feed that night, then we would find it washed up downstream the next morning…
I was not convinced and spent an age trying to see any movement of the rock, that I was sure was the hippo, in order to see if it was buoyant yet. I could not be sure, but it seemed to be bobbing about slightly. There were still about twenty hippos that had no intention of budging from the deeper water in front of the cave, naturally.
The rock was the hippo, we finally all agreed, but was it moving? OK, this was it. Plan A: we fire a few rounds into the water near the hippo hoping that either the others move away or their stirrings will send a wave large enough into the cave to dislodge the carcass. Plan B: if that didn’t work we would cross the river and climb down the cliff into the cave, trying to swim over from the little ledge at the cave entrance and get a rope onto it before the crocs could eat us. It was, after all, suicidal and so I could not ask anybody else to try. One small set back, we have no rope, none even in camp. I sent the pick-up back to camp to collect as much sisal twine as they could and then started on Doc, trying everything to have him agree to stay behind and guard our backs. This took some doing, seriously firm doing.
Doc started firing a few rounds near to the hippo pod. They created quite a commotion, but they refused to move away and the lump in the cave didn’t budge.
I had scouted out the river and the best crossing appeared to be a little way up stream. Four trackers and I stripped down to our underwear and after firing a couple of rounds into the water to scare away any lurking crocs waded out into the river. The trackers had said that the water would be deep in places and we may have to swim, which would be difficult carrying my boots and rifle, but as it turned out I had picked a good spot and the deepest water was only just above my knees.
Doc was pissed at my refusing to let him come across with us but he kept guard from the bank looking for any danger from hippo or croc. Once we had walked back down the opposite bank and up along the cliff we were overlooking the hippo pod, gathering stones and harassing them into giving way. The trackers accuracy was on display as every time a snout broke the surface a stone would strike within inches. They were stubborn but eventually split half the pod moving off upstream and the rest down stream. They didn’t go far, but it was enough.
We then cut down two medium sized trees, hauling them over to the cliff and then maneuvering them so we could use them as a ladder to climb down onto the ledge at the caves mouth. We had to make thirty-foot ropes by joining ten strands of the twine together. This we attached to a tree above the cliff. It was our safety line.
Three of us climbed down onto the ledge with my rifle, keeping an eye on the agitated kiboko nearby. Now, with all the hype over the cave I would need to swim over to the carcass. I fired one more shot into the cave to scare off any of the massive crocs reputed to live in there. I have never been brave about water when I can’t see the bottom, so my mouth was dry as I waded in. The water only came up to my kidneys! I had the rope so that I could be hauled back to the ledge and wouldn’t be washed along the cliff. What an anti-climax it was, and what a relief!
It was strange maneuvering this huge beast, remembering all of the scary stories of dead animals jumping to life, and crocs attacking in the back of the mind. The cold skin was firm and leathery soft, its' size daunting.
We tied the strengthened twine to the trophy and set off back to the other side, wading through deep water with hippo on either side of us, staring menacingly. It was as I was halfway across the river with my boots in one hand, and rifle in the other, that I remembered a corny advert for boots that has an almost identical picture of the Hulk Hogan look-alike professional hunter, John Sharp, crossing a river in the same way. And then I remembered that on this occasion Patrick was filming it all. How embarrassing to be caught on video doing all this dramatic macho stuff. I was cringing at the thought of it. I immediately opened negotiations for the editing rights.
It was dark by the time we had the kiboko beached and dismembered. I spent the evening standing guard over the crew as they chopped and cut the carcass into more manageable portions in waist deep water with the rest of the pod forty yards away, looking on. We didn’t even have time for the trophy photo, but what a relief to have the bait in the river and the trophy in camp.
