Sue Tidwell
AH fanatic
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- Tanzania, Namibia, Mozambique
Here's a little story about Rick's first Cape buffalo hunt in Tanzania. This took place in the morning of the first day of our very first African safari. I'm sure a lot of you can relate to the outcome of this hunt!
"…Mgogo lurched forward, tapping Raphael on the shoulder, immediately spurring Raphael to rap on the cab window, telling Mike to stop. The two men jumped off, ran a dozen yards, and peered at the ground amidst a parley of Swahili. Rick and I watched eagerly, trying to decipher the gist of the conversation.
A minute later, Raphael came back and whispered, “Fresh Nyati tracks heading towards the riverbed. Alone. A dagga boy.”…
Raphael estimated the track to be less than an hour old. The hunt was on. Single file, we headed into the bush like a serpentine column of withering old men: backs hunched, shoulders rounded, and heads slumped. A position that made us look smaller and less human-like. We crept along, mirroring the crouched person in front of us while stepping almost exactly in each carefully placed footstep, avoiding kicking rocks and breaking twigs that would give us away.
There was also a precise order to the snake-like formation. When tracking dangerous game, Mgogo was always in the front, intent on reading each piece of displaced dirt, snapped twig, crushed blade of grass, or partial hoof print while Raphael followed close behind with his rifle ready. The dagga boy could be concealed behind any mound of dirt, thicket, or stand of grass, bursting out at any time. Cradling his rifle as well, Rick followed behind Raphael. I followed in Rick’s footsteps with Abdalah behind me. Lilian and her automatic weapon always brought up the rear.
Since a firearm in the hands of an untrained person is more deadly than any buffalo, everyone was safer without me carrying a rifle. The trackers, too, never carried a weapon. This could have been for a host of reasons. Possibly, it hindered their movements and ability to do their jobs. Maybe they weren’t trained or didn’t have access to a gun. Possibly, too many rifles in the field was just as dangerous as too few. Whatever the reason, the firepower rested squarely on the shoulders of Raphael, Rick, and Lilian.
Stealthily, we weaved through brush, open areas, and stands of towering grass, often reaching 10 feet tall. Sneaking through the thick walls of vegetation kept me on pins and needles. Since my fear of Nyati had yet to manifest, my unease centered on the multitude of deadly snakes that could be lurking in the dense, sometimes trampled and matted, network of dried foliage.
Tanzania is home to four kinds of spitting cobra alone. All of which are plenty deadly. Everyone is familiar with these serpents with their unique expandable hoods flaring out in warning. In fact, I’d go as far as to say spitting cobras, with their throats inflated and hissing in their full intimidating glory, are even more sinister looking than the black mamba.
Second, on my most-feared list was the puff adder. It is a short serpent, 3 to 4 feet long, with a stout chevron-patterned body that blends perfectly with the environment. While this snake’s venom isn’t as deadly as the black mamba’s, it is responsible for up to 90 percent of all snakebites in Africa, killing more people than any other snake.
There are several reasons the puff adder holds this honor: they are widespread across most of Africa; they are often found in close proximity to settlements since rodents, their favorite food, are found there in abundance; and they are sluggish nocturnal snakes who ambush their prey by sitting motionless for hours. Its lazy attitude is countered by utter swiftness when it strikes. Unfortunately, for all too many rural Africans, the slothful snake doesn’t flee when unsuspecting, often barefoot, villagers travel the same well-worn trails that the snake’s prey uses. If stepped on or threatened, the puff adder strikes quickly in retaliation.
As I crept through the savanna, stepping in the footsteps of those in front of me, I convinced myself that being fourth in line meant I would not be the first to encounter one of the short, fat lazy reptiles. Surely Raphael or Mgogo would spot it first. Also, it was nocturnal, and we were hunting in broad daylight. Certainly, Mr. Puff Adder was hiding from the blazing sun, holed up in some cool dark place.
The black mamba was a different story. As I mentioned, the lethal slithering giant was the object of my nightmares. Their extreme length allows them to rear several feet off the ground, peering above the grasses like a telescope on a submarine. Because of this ability, they often strike victims in the head, face, and neck, another factor making them so deadly. Knowing my fear, Raphael assured me that black mambas are actually shy; their acute senses would feel our approach and be long gone before we got anywhere near them. This deadly snake supposedly only becomes a threat if it is cornered or threatened. Both of which I had no intention of doing.
Rick likes to refer to me as a bull in a china shop. While that trait may not have been great for slinking noiselessly through the savanna, it may have worked in my favor when it came to alerting any snakes en route. Still, I took no chances. With each footstep, I alternated between scouring the ground and scanning for steely-black eyes peering above the grasses.
This hushed and meticulous game of “Follow-the-Leader” continued as we weaved through game trails, sparsely vegetated clearings, burnt-out sections of scrubland, and tall-grass thickets; I breathed a sigh of relief each time we exited one of the jungle-like enclaves. No one spoke. The only sound was fabric rubbing against the grasses or the slight scuff of a boot against the ground. Quiet obedience maintained us stepping one foot in front of the other as we blindly followed Mgogo and Raphael through the bush in the wake of the dagga boy.
Though skulking through terrain with an abundance of death-dealing creatures was unnerving, to say the least, I soon found myself transitioning from fearfulness to fascination as I watched Mgogo and Raphael’s every move trying to determine what narrative they were reading in the dirt. It was utterly riveting.
After almost two hours of this intense version of a childhood game, they unexpectedly straightened from their withered-old-men impression and began speaking openly. Confused, we looked at Raphael.
“The dagga boy crossed into the national park,” he explained.
It was only then that we realized we were standing in a dried-up riverbed. In fact, it was the Mzombe river, the same dehydrated waterway that bordered our camp. It turns out that the river was the border between Ruaha National Park and the Rungwa West Game Reserve. The dagga boy had chosen his route well. The second his hooves touched that sand; he was off limits. Hunting in the park was absolutely prohibited. Just like that, the hunt was over. Ended by that magical invisible line. Score one for the Nyati. Zero for us. As most hunters would say, that is why they call it hunting and not killing.
At the time, we were clueless that our little nest at Masimba Camp was butted up against the national park’s boundary, another great reason foreign hunters aren’t set loose in Africa on their own. The PH does know such crucial information. We had been so intent on the tracking that we barely noticed transitioning from the savanna into the strip of sand and rocks.
Initially, we were slightly dumbfounded by the turn of events and, of course, a little disappointed, but as the excitement dissipated, another realization washed over us. My gosh. We had just followed in the tracks of a Cape buffalo in Tanzania, Africa. How blessed were we to have such an amazingly visceral experience? The fact that we had spotted neither hide nor hair of the old boy in our two-hour quest was irrelevant. The pursuit itself was the reward. Watching Mgogo and Raphael expertly read the buffalo’s almost imperceptible spoor was the absolute cherry on top -- a true privilege…”
"This is how we roll" - our first morning of our very first safari. Mike and Lilian inside vehicle. On the bench seat: Raphael Erro, our Professional hunter, me, my husband Rick. In the cargo area: Mgogo, our head tracker, and Zefania, our assistant tracker.
"…Mgogo lurched forward, tapping Raphael on the shoulder, immediately spurring Raphael to rap on the cab window, telling Mike to stop. The two men jumped off, ran a dozen yards, and peered at the ground amidst a parley of Swahili. Rick and I watched eagerly, trying to decipher the gist of the conversation.
A minute later, Raphael came back and whispered, “Fresh Nyati tracks heading towards the riverbed. Alone. A dagga boy.”…
Raphael estimated the track to be less than an hour old. The hunt was on. Single file, we headed into the bush like a serpentine column of withering old men: backs hunched, shoulders rounded, and heads slumped. A position that made us look smaller and less human-like. We crept along, mirroring the crouched person in front of us while stepping almost exactly in each carefully placed footstep, avoiding kicking rocks and breaking twigs that would give us away.
There was also a precise order to the snake-like formation. When tracking dangerous game, Mgogo was always in the front, intent on reading each piece of displaced dirt, snapped twig, crushed blade of grass, or partial hoof print while Raphael followed close behind with his rifle ready. The dagga boy could be concealed behind any mound of dirt, thicket, or stand of grass, bursting out at any time. Cradling his rifle as well, Rick followed behind Raphael. I followed in Rick’s footsteps with Abdalah behind me. Lilian and her automatic weapon always brought up the rear.
Since a firearm in the hands of an untrained person is more deadly than any buffalo, everyone was safer without me carrying a rifle. The trackers, too, never carried a weapon. This could have been for a host of reasons. Possibly, it hindered their movements and ability to do their jobs. Maybe they weren’t trained or didn’t have access to a gun. Possibly, too many rifles in the field was just as dangerous as too few. Whatever the reason, the firepower rested squarely on the shoulders of Raphael, Rick, and Lilian.
Stealthily, we weaved through brush, open areas, and stands of towering grass, often reaching 10 feet tall. Sneaking through the thick walls of vegetation kept me on pins and needles. Since my fear of Nyati had yet to manifest, my unease centered on the multitude of deadly snakes that could be lurking in the dense, sometimes trampled and matted, network of dried foliage.
Tanzania is home to four kinds of spitting cobra alone. All of which are plenty deadly. Everyone is familiar with these serpents with their unique expandable hoods flaring out in warning. In fact, I’d go as far as to say spitting cobras, with their throats inflated and hissing in their full intimidating glory, are even more sinister looking than the black mamba.
Second, on my most-feared list was the puff adder. It is a short serpent, 3 to 4 feet long, with a stout chevron-patterned body that blends perfectly with the environment. While this snake’s venom isn’t as deadly as the black mamba’s, it is responsible for up to 90 percent of all snakebites in Africa, killing more people than any other snake.
There are several reasons the puff adder holds this honor: they are widespread across most of Africa; they are often found in close proximity to settlements since rodents, their favorite food, are found there in abundance; and they are sluggish nocturnal snakes who ambush their prey by sitting motionless for hours. Its lazy attitude is countered by utter swiftness when it strikes. Unfortunately, for all too many rural Africans, the slothful snake doesn’t flee when unsuspecting, often barefoot, villagers travel the same well-worn trails that the snake’s prey uses. If stepped on or threatened, the puff adder strikes quickly in retaliation.
As I crept through the savanna, stepping in the footsteps of those in front of me, I convinced myself that being fourth in line meant I would not be the first to encounter one of the short, fat lazy reptiles. Surely Raphael or Mgogo would spot it first. Also, it was nocturnal, and we were hunting in broad daylight. Certainly, Mr. Puff Adder was hiding from the blazing sun, holed up in some cool dark place.
The black mamba was a different story. As I mentioned, the lethal slithering giant was the object of my nightmares. Their extreme length allows them to rear several feet off the ground, peering above the grasses like a telescope on a submarine. Because of this ability, they often strike victims in the head, face, and neck, another factor making them so deadly. Knowing my fear, Raphael assured me that black mambas are actually shy; their acute senses would feel our approach and be long gone before we got anywhere near them. This deadly snake supposedly only becomes a threat if it is cornered or threatened. Both of which I had no intention of doing.
Rick likes to refer to me as a bull in a china shop. While that trait may not have been great for slinking noiselessly through the savanna, it may have worked in my favor when it came to alerting any snakes en route. Still, I took no chances. With each footstep, I alternated between scouring the ground and scanning for steely-black eyes peering above the grasses.
This hushed and meticulous game of “Follow-the-Leader” continued as we weaved through game trails, sparsely vegetated clearings, burnt-out sections of scrubland, and tall-grass thickets; I breathed a sigh of relief each time we exited one of the jungle-like enclaves. No one spoke. The only sound was fabric rubbing against the grasses or the slight scuff of a boot against the ground. Quiet obedience maintained us stepping one foot in front of the other as we blindly followed Mgogo and Raphael through the bush in the wake of the dagga boy.
Though skulking through terrain with an abundance of death-dealing creatures was unnerving, to say the least, I soon found myself transitioning from fearfulness to fascination as I watched Mgogo and Raphael’s every move trying to determine what narrative they were reading in the dirt. It was utterly riveting.
After almost two hours of this intense version of a childhood game, they unexpectedly straightened from their withered-old-men impression and began speaking openly. Confused, we looked at Raphael.
“The dagga boy crossed into the national park,” he explained.
It was only then that we realized we were standing in a dried-up riverbed. In fact, it was the Mzombe river, the same dehydrated waterway that bordered our camp. It turns out that the river was the border between Ruaha National Park and the Rungwa West Game Reserve. The dagga boy had chosen his route well. The second his hooves touched that sand; he was off limits. Hunting in the park was absolutely prohibited. Just like that, the hunt was over. Ended by that magical invisible line. Score one for the Nyati. Zero for us. As most hunters would say, that is why they call it hunting and not killing.
At the time, we were clueless that our little nest at Masimba Camp was butted up against the national park’s boundary, another great reason foreign hunters aren’t set loose in Africa on their own. The PH does know such crucial information. We had been so intent on the tracking that we barely noticed transitioning from the savanna into the strip of sand and rocks.
Initially, we were slightly dumbfounded by the turn of events and, of course, a little disappointed, but as the excitement dissipated, another realization washed over us. My gosh. We had just followed in the tracks of a Cape buffalo in Tanzania, Africa. How blessed were we to have such an amazingly visceral experience? The fact that we had spotted neither hide nor hair of the old boy in our two-hour quest was irrelevant. The pursuit itself was the reward. Watching Mgogo and Raphael expertly read the buffalo’s almost imperceptible spoor was the absolute cherry on top -- a true privilege…”
"This is how we roll" - our first morning of our very first safari. Mike and Lilian inside vehicle. On the bench seat: Raphael Erro, our Professional hunter, me, my husband Rick. In the cargo area: Mgogo, our head tracker, and Zefania, our assistant tracker.
