CAMPFIRE TALES...

IT WAS A balmy May evening in the middle Drakensberg; Royce Buckle and I were enjoying a fire under the stars. Born in Tanganyika, Royce grew up on a farm before becoming a ‘white hunter’ as East African professional hunters were called back in the 1950s. Now in his eighties, Royce lives near Winterton, and in recent years we have become firm friends. We talk the same language – a language which, nowadays, fewer and fewer people can or want to talk… guns, game and hunting, mostly.

“I saw a lone hartebeest walk across that hillside this morning,” I said. “A century ago, hartebeest were plentiful in the Berg. Two freak blizzards wiped most of them out.” Royce nodded, “It can get bitterly cold up here in winter. The townie hikers like it because there’s not much chance of seeing snakes in winter.” I smiled; “Strange how many people are terrified of snakes in the veld, yet there’s really not much danger, except maybe for puff adders.” “Yes,” said Royce, “and higher up, berg adders are bit of a worry for climbers. But, wear leather ankle-boots, watch where you put your feet – and your hands, if you’re a climber – and your chances of getting bitten are remote.”

I threw another log on the fire. “First thing many people ask when I say I’m going hunting, especially camping, is ‘Aren’t you afraid of snakes?’ I bet you heard this too, as a PH.” “Yes, especially with overseas clients. We always told them they really had nothing to worry about, but this once backfired on us badly,” grinned Royce. “How was that?” I asked.

“It was in the mid-1950s. Stan Lawrence-brown was guiding Marge Hopkins – Don Hopkins’s wife.” “Don Hopkins, the American wildcat guy?” I asked. “Yes. You remember, Elmer Keith always wrote of a wildcat cartridge called the .333 OKH? The OKH stood for O’neil, Keith and Hopkins.” “Yes,” I replied, “They wanted a sort of American .333 Jeffery. It did well in Africa.”

“Well,” said Royce, “Don Hopkins and his wife were clients of ours, hunting separately, and she was in Stan’s camp in the Loita Hills. I was asked to drive some supplies out to their camp. I arrived at about 4pm, greeted Marge Hopkins who was having tea in the mess tent, then went over to Stan’s tent. We’d been chatting for some time, when Marge’s tent attendant, Mbubi, appeared to say we should come quickly as there was a snake in Mrs Hopkins’s tent. ‘Oh, good grief…’ said Stan, ‘and I assured her she needn’t worry about snakes.’ He turned to me; ‘Grab the 20-bore and some birdshot and come quickly’. We arrived at Marge’s tent to find it zipped up because she was having bath. You remember those old canvas camping baths supported by a frame?” “Yes,” I smiled at the memory, “the canvas always felt slimy under the hot soapy water.”

“Stan called out, ‘Where is the snake? How long is it?’ Anxiously, Marge replied, ‘It’s right next to the tub! It’s green and about five feet long... Its head is raised and it’s moving toward me’. There was a pause, then, ‘Every time I speak to you it flicks its tongue out at me! It’s going to get into the tub!’ That prompted Stan to yell, ‘I’m coming in!’ ‘Don’t you dare!’ she shrieked.” Royce paused now, as I was laughing.

“Stan signalled me away from the tent and whispered urgently, ‘What kind of snake do you suppose it is?’ I replied, ‘If it’s green and that size, it’s most likely a boomslang; possibly a green mamba, but unlikely.’ ‘Mmmm,’ said Stan, ‘either way, they can be deadly.’ Then he hissed in frustration, ‘She seems more worried about me seeing her in the nude than about the damn snake!’ Stan paced back to the zipped entrance. ‘Marge? What’s happening? I can’t help you from out here.’ Her voice was tremulous now, ‘It’s crossing over my legs!’ There was a tense silence, then, ‘Wait… Don’t come in… its head has reached the other side of the tub… it’s starting to go down the other side.’ Stan called out, ‘What do you want me to do?’ She answered, ‘Wait, it’s trying to get out the tent. It’s working its way under the canvas wall.’ Stan turned to me, ‘Quick!’ I darted to that side of the tent with the gun ready.” Royce wet his throat with a sip of beer.

“Well, I was young and impetuous… didn’t think it through. Instead of waiting until the whole snake was out of the tent, I blew its head off as soon as it appeared. The snake’s body, which was still draped over the canvas bath, went into violent spasms, thrashing about and spraying blood all over Marge and the bath and her things. We heard a horrified shriek, and then a furious, ‘Damned idiot!’ Marge took supper in her tent that evening. Mbubi reported that he’d cleaned it up, but the memsahib was extremely kali. I drove out at dawn.”

Readers are invited to share true humorous or intriguing short stories via our Campfire tales column. Email mail@manmagnum.co.za for our (free) guidelines on how this works. – Editor