Rogue elephant
Taming the bush can be dangerous business.
At the start of each hunting season in western Tanzania, Wengert Windrose Safaris employed me to work in the Moyowosi Game Preserve. Among other things my job was to build a new camp. I shared this adventure with a casual labour force of ten men recruited from the village of Kafura, as well as my permanent staff; a cook, waiters, skinners, trackers and gun-bearers, brought in from the tourist town of Arusha.
The camps that I built were rugged, yet refined. Everything was made from natural materials such as grass, miombo poles and bamboo. We used plenty of nails and sisal strings, but definitely no tape measure. It was basically beds with mattresses under canvas covers, a paraffin fridge and some lights, and it worked.
AN INTERRUPTION
The main camp was used as a staging post for fly camps destined for the far-flung corners of my hunting block. The site for this camp had a wide view over a floodplain with a wall of papyrus in the distance. On this particular day a ten-ton Russian truck was parked in the background and the men were hard at work. The ground was littered with thatching grass and bamboo. Some of the staff cut poles in the miombo forest and stacked them to be collected, while others worked on the edge of the airstrip. There they cut palm fronds low to the ground to weave mats from.
In charge of all this was my foreman, Swai, who was a jack of all trades. This young man’s presence had clout with my workers, because his father was the manager of the hunting preserve and their names were listed in his office files. Also present was David, the government game scout, who was responsible for the workers’ safety and had a .458 slung over his shoulder.
Everyone was busy working
when suddenly, one of the men shouted, “Tembo!” (elephant in Swahili). A bull was charging them silently and with deadly intent, his ears flat against his head, trunk curled up. The workers hastily dropped their tools and scattered. David fired a shot and the elephant collapsed. Caught up in the heat of the moment, the scout panicked. He short-stroked the next round and the rifle jammed. He fiddled with the magazine floor plate, spilling rounds onto the ground. The elephant, having only been stunned, got up and slowly wandered back into the bush. This incident was reported to me late that night, after we got back to the campsite.
The next morning the airstrip was ready and our company charter plane, a Cessna 206, touched down with supplies and government officials. While the officials inspected the airstrip on foot, the pilot and I, accompanied by my hunting crew, took off again to search the skies for vultures, but we saw none.
The visitors finally flew off back to Arusha, where our headquarters lay in the shadow of Mount Meru, and left us to continue building the camp.
A SECOND VISIT
Three days went by... the camp- site was a hive of activity. Some men thatched, while others sawed and hammered. The men sang happily, their stomachs filled with game meat, beans and pap. Suddenly, there was a desperate shout coming from the direction of the staff toilet! A tree top shook violently and with a loud rustling the bushes erupted – a worker was running for his life, chased by an angry elephant. As he ran he screamed, “Pika! Pika!” (Shoot! Shoot!). My Krieghoff .470 was on the seat of my Land Cruiser and both doors were blocked by bundles of grass tossed down by the terrified workers who bolted. I felt helpless. I threw a hammer at the animal and got behind the truck.
The elephant passed so close to me, I could see murder in his pig-like eyes! His head bobbed up and down as he ran and smashed through two framework structures. On the fringe of the camp the bull slowed to a lumbering halt. For an animal of such great bulk, he wheeled round with lightning speed. Dust flew as he shook his head and with ears wide he faced us.
The tension was high. David suddenly appeared and gave me my .470. He also held his .458 ready. “Do not shoot!” I snapped. I glassed the elephant’s head and chest for wounds and asked David if it was the airstrip elephant. My words were barely cold when the bull charged again. David fired over its head. A man banged on a drum, while others shouted. My .470 aimed for a brain shot. I waited with my finger on the trigger... but then the bull broke off his charge. I felt relieved as the animal veered off course and angled past us. I held my fire and looked over the iron sights for a wound, but found nothing. We watched him retreat into the tree-line behind camp and vanish from sight.
A CHANCE ENCOUNTER
I was expecting German apprentice hunter Peter Dafner that night. He arrived late after »
» having had problems with his four-cylinder Land Cruiser. I instructed Swai to help him with the repairs and left. With the heavy camp work completed, my vehicle was weighed down with casual workers, their pay in their pockets. We motored over the floodplain and entered the miombo forest where the blood-sucking tsetse flies attacked in squadrons. I wound up the windows of my vehicle. We had a five-hour drive ahead of us over a track corrugated by tree roots. Then suddenly a Lichtenstein’s hartebeest dashed across the path in front of us, running in its typical bouncing gait. He stopped just over a hundred yards away and I quickly brought the vehicle to a halt. I had left my .470 at the camp, so I shot the animal with my iron-sighted .375.
We had to negotiate miombo tree trunks to get to the hartebeest, but finally stopped next to the carcass. A drably-coloured bird, a honeyguide, fluttered between the trees to get our attention. The opportunity could not be passed up. Some men answered the bird’s call, whistled and followed it into the forest, while others gutted and butchered the hartebeest. Later, we heard the sound of axes chopping; they had found honey! The hartebeest meat was packed on board the vehicle. When the honey collectors returned, they carried smouldering elephant dung which they used to stun the bees. Their bodies were veiled in smoke as they carried the sweet bounty, still in the combs, on trays of freshlycut bark. They climbed on board the truck.
Suddenly there were shouts of nouchi! (bees!). The angry swarm attacked and some of the men dropped their honey and abandoned the truck. Two crammed themselves into the tight confines of the cab and slammed the door! We wound up the windows, but still got stung on our faces, arms and legs. Quickly and carefully we retreated between the trees and back onto the main track. There the men broke off leafy branches and used them as beeswatters. The drama over, they laughed to ease the tension.
We pushed on and eventually arrived at the village of Kafura. I parked outside the Game Department Head Quarters and the men jumped off the truck. They had money in their pockets, fresh meat and honey... they were happy. I bade them farewell and then went to pay my respects to Swai’s father, the manager of Moyowosi Game Preserve. There I signed the visitor’s book and reported the elephant incidents.
Afterwards I left for Kibondo and finally arrived in this scruffy town late at night. Dogs were scavenging in roadside garbage and music blared from the taverns lit up by kerosene lamps. I headed to the Catholic Mission where Father James welcomed me. There we dined like kings on fresh hartebeest and wild honey.
BACK TO CAMP
The next day, after my business in Kibondo was completed, I left for my camp, the truck loaded down with 45 gallon drums of diesel. On the way back I again stopped at the Kafura Game Department where Swai’s father gave me a letter to give to his son. Seated next to me in the Land Cruiser was game scout and skilled elephant hunter, Moses, with a .458 held between his legs. It was late afternoon when we left the village. With the truck in fourwheel drive we drove off into the cool night. Later a duiker, caught in the headlights, jumped across our path. We also playfully chased a hyena down the track.
I brought the truck to a cautious halt when a massive tree barred our way. Moses got out and walked in front to direct me round the obstacle. Then suddenly, the ground caved in! I had driven over a network of abandoned ant-bear holes hijacked by hyenas. The cruiser hung on its chassis, with all four wheels spinning. We off-loaded the drums of diesel and raised the vehicle with the high-lift jack. The sun was starting to rise and daylight filtered in. We filled the holes with dirt from termite mounds and I drove carefully onto firm ground. Loading the drums back onto the truck required a Herculean effort and lots of cursing.
The sun was hot overhead when we drove into camp. I cut the motor and all was quiet. Peter’s vehicle was missing and Swai was conspicuous by his absence. I shouted. The cook emerged from the kitchen and greeted us. We offloaded the fuel and drove to the airstrip. Vultures were circling in the air at the end of the runway where my staff was butchering an elephant. All six of them hacked and chopped at the carcass.
Then Swai appeared with a swagger in his step and my .470 over his shoulder. Peter and David walked up and propped their .458s up against a tree.
Peter approached me and dropped two, bloody bullets into my hand. They were from a poacher’s muzzle-loader and recovered from the elephant. “It charged us...” he said by way of explanation.