Losimengore December 2003

This was not the easiest week I have had. There were three Austrians that were together through choice and one, with his wife that was with them through fate. Of the companions of preference one is an agent who wanted the best for his clients, who are friends and colleagues, both being in the hardware and building supply trade. One, a simple humble man, giving an impression of being easy going with a toothy grin, submissively hunched shoulders, and gaps the size of snooker pockets in a mouth nearly as wide as the table. His turnover is about twenty million dollars a year. His colleague is blunt, gruff and bordering on rude vulgar-ness, and the richer of the two. I would be nervous about leaving any pretty thing in his care. Both are ugly short and square to round, the richer man's head is large and very bald in top with the classic long hair on one side that is to be brushed over the top. However this style of deception dose not lend itself to hunting the green hills of Northern Tanzania leading to my comparing him to the comical sight of a long crested eagle with the breeze from behind.

The agent was the dry mouthed hanger on, and front of all scheming contact with the company. He is tall and nervous.

The professionals were to have been the long legged young German, owner of the company, advocate of the area and physically challenging buffalo hunting, and myself. However the young German had malaria bad and so a small mild wrinkled Zimbo took his spot with an hours notice.

The Austrian couple is not married but together, in love, and refreshing. He, a little boastful, has made his life by starting the second biggest company in the world manufacturing plotters for machine tools. A small, specialized and profitable field. The usual happened and he sold to the biggest and did very well thank you. He is very comfortable and keeps busy running the investments he has and hunting his alpine concession. She is a widower, left behind by a depressive suicide and generously scooped up by the rich man climbing out of the wreckage of two broken mirages. I liked them, but expected no favours and got none.

The last players were a German couple with history and good standing. Post war refugees from the Baltic States. Fine examples off good Germans, physically large, polite, eager and first in the cue. She has claim to being a Baroness and he bears a neat scar down his left cheek, the result of a dual with sabre to prove manhood is serious, and acceptance by the best is hard won.

I knew this was to be a demanding complicated trip when they informed me, at the hotel on the first morning I met them, that they had not known they would have company in camp. The baroness, who was very genuine and interested in all, did not take to the blunt retailer with no manners at all. Her husband could hardly see over his enthusiasm for the hunt and cared less if he was eating with pigs or Austrian purveyors of hardware and building materials, his dignity self assured.

I decided to run to the hills and fly camp up in the damp clouds with the two couples in dome tents on the first day. Now the Austrian had, had surgery on a knee ten days before and did not want too challenging a time while the German was there to prove his physical superiority and ability to beet the ageing process. The Austrian lover would not let her Knight in shining armour out of her sight so in spite of the hardship involved she resolutely accompanied him everywhere. There were the three of them, a tracker, an insignificant other to help, and myself.

Hunting buff in this area is hill stalking over difficult terrain or tracking through steep valleys, thick itching bush and cloud forest. On the first evening we walked along the narrow ridges that are breaks of grass from the forest sided deep valleys that fall away on either side. The Austrian decided he would not follow us down the last grass tangled drop off and sat waiting with his lover and rifle on a prominent knoll for overview. As we later rejoined him he told of a strange noise that after a couple of attempts was clearly labelled as buffalo bellow that had emanated from the tangle fifty yards behind. We cautiously approached and soon realized that we had a herd of the beasts on the edge of a clearing about to venture out to graze the evening due. It was now dusk and I am not fond of following lead stung, nose out of joint, black beasts, nearly a ton of fury, at night and called it a day. As we started out of our cover there emerged a cow and young bull a few yards away and stood there starring at us deciding if it would be fight or flight. A couple of gestures with waving arms set them on the latter course and we walked on to camp in the dark, leaving a tightly defended clump of buffalo defending a small mound, drawn up in the classic circle and gazing after us through he fading light.

At dawn the next day we set out squinting through the mist at every rock or bush in case it transformed into the deadly. The grass was heavy with due and the old mans beard dripped from every tree. The German was a foot behind me all the time where he should have been, but the Knight lagged with his quiet uncomplaining and solid partner. We tracked a heard for five hours down the mountain and I think we would have got one if the recovering gentleman had not lost all sense of humour and sat down in the path not to budged for about an hour. The going was worsening by the minute and he put on a brave face and lent heavily on the helper there to assist him.

When we did finally catch up with the herd, it was as I had given over to despondency and fatigue in trying to maintain some semblance of order and enthusiasm. These were typical buff. Three bulls left the dividing and re-merging track to hold up in a thicker bit of the impenetrable brush on a particularly steep part of the descent but near the valley floor. I noticed where they had split off and followed their track a little way to re-assure myself that they had gone some way and were not lying in wait to ambush us, as is their habit. The head tracker and I scanned the dens vegetation carefully and I even used my new ten power binoculars. The path they had chosen was too steep and cluttered for our despondent noisy party so still a little wearily I started down the path taken by the heard. As I went two paces the dense mass of stick where the tracks led, erupted as three huge angry solid masses crashed their way down over the path that I was about to go down, breaking trees and rolling stones as they went. It was the dawning of the truth and the reality of what we were about for those that were new to the game.

By this time I had lost hope of bagging a buff as they were on to us and we did not have the option of wearing them down till the face off, as I like to do when the stamina is spiked with determination and excitement. They crashed and thundered off twice more from around us causing worried panic once as the Knight tripped while jumping to the protection of his maiden, and the safety of a large tree trunk.

I called the car to us by radio and we drove back up the hill. The next day our long legged employer arrived a little over his illness and ready to sacrifice his health for his fellow German friend’s need of a better buffalo head. I took the Austrians down the mountain to the main camp and we tried again the next day. I now had an inexperienced, stupid young Maasai as tracker who lost the best path the next morning and by so doing walked us into an old one horned bull, who’s bones would have already dispersed and been picked clean by the vulture, if it was not for the skin holding them together.

The typical quandary ensued.

“ He has one horn would you like to shoot him,” repeated twice while seven yards from the pitiful parasite infested heap. A nod followed by a shot and then jubilation. Even I was pleased having done a favour to the sickly old animal.

“ Oh, he only has one horn!” As if he didn't hear.

“Where did you aim?” I ask.

“For the heart.” The reply.

“Well that was a great neck shot.” The unspoken retort.

And the last thing the old buffalo knew was the sweet honeyed sent of yellow fever tree blossom.


We then all walked up the valley just in case there was another buffalo for the taking, but this was not the day for a double. I left the young tracker and game scout skinning the cape and escorted the gentleman and his about to gag lady back to the car. I returned with water for the lads only to find that a nightmare had come true and the fool had tried to sharpen my $250 hunting knife on a stone. It took all my self-control not to take his thick little head from his skinny little shoulders.

Now that my new friend had his head for the wall of the mansion I was told to take a bash with one of his compatriots. I ended up with the older better healed of the two. The gapped grinner and agent dumped him on me having figured that he would slow them in hill and canyon hunting. I only found out on the last day that he had a heart history. He tried hard and was uncomplaining with me and I liked him by the end of it all. I proceeded to walk to any likely water with him over the next three days.

The others had better luck that first of the second buffalo days and ran up a steep incline to get around and take out another reasonable head from the valleys. I love hunting. The agent and his two clients confronted me after lunch that day hoping to put pressure on a man trying to hunt buffalo up hills in the thick. I didn't’t really give a shit for their gripes and I hope they noticed that though my customary politeness. We were all making the best we could of a bad dry dusty time and no unjustified griping would change a thing. Three hours later they had a buff and could not stop patting backs and smiling.

The last chance humpty and I where to have was on the final hunting day. I drove north from camp and set myself up on a good viewpoint overlooking the valleys and ridges hoping to catch sight of an old bull who’s tracks we had seen the day before. He we did not out and about, but way of in the distance about four kilometres through the dawn, I spotted a herd moving in the open and we planed an approach. After a drive and mile long walk they popped up out of a valley just in front of us and moving in our direction.

It looked as if they would cross our field of view at about thirty yards and up wind. Perfect. We took cover behind the scant bushes available, to choose a bull as they strolled by. Without warning a yearling bull took the lead from the pathfinder old cow and changed course, straight for us. It looked now that some of the outriders may walk down wind of us and that the good bulls were far back and out of range. I moved forward and down wind again reaching more sparse cover while the herd plodded on the frontrunners at forty yards. A desperate huddled bent creep over open ground. Nobody followed me! I gestured desperately to the game scout to come over NOW with the client and tracker. Nobody moved. The tracker placed the shooting sticks for the client who aimed. I heard a faint strained, “shoot, shoot”.

By now the lead buffalo was close and I hoped perhaps they had a line on a good bull. They didn't’t. The buffalo came on while I watched. Visions of my lost hunting career wanted to flick before my eyes. How would I live with the guilt? There are no excuses for a dead client!

Buffalo are very hard to shoot well from the front as they loll along, their heads down and I was wandering what I could do, not wanting to scare the herd off as they would not stay once disturbed. As the lead buffalo neared ten paces from them the game scout gave a panicked grunt. The herd froze gazing ahead looking for the disturbance with bloodshot, uncertain, angry eyes. Now I had to act. I stamped the ground to bring their unwelcome attention on to me. They adjusted their stance and glared in my direction. I stamped again, and that was enough. They rumbled off, mildly alarmed. In the shimmering dry heat they headed for the nearest entangled shade to encircle and settle for the slow time when only mad dogs and I would move.

As you can imagine I had very simple language for the tracker. What was to be a very easy hunt had turned into the usual dangerous cat and mouse with for warned buffalo, that the hunter seldom wins. It was to thick to be sure but what looked to be a very reasonable bull gazed at us through the brush as they settled down for their siesta. Although the man shooting had already stated that any buffalo would do, I will not allow for guesswork in the taking of a life to adorn some wall. Old it must be for me.

I left the tracker and driver with a radio, instructed not to disturb the herd and to watch from some distance, while we went for lunch. When I got back I could tell that there was a problem by the talkativeness of the driver and the lack of information from the tracker. This young Maasai was typical in that he was arrogant and too cool. He was, as they are, tall dark and very well proportioned. He insisted on wearing a colourful balaclava no matter how warm. He has the mandatory small balanced head, high cheekbones and aloof air. So aloof that to appear to pay head to his surroundings, or anything I might say or do, was below him. A good trait that may be the end of him soon. Or he may be blessed with the ample cats lives, mixed with a few guardian angles, that I have employed. If he is lucky he may live long enough to grow through that idealistic self assured time. However I took what they had to say at face value and on that information very carefully stalked a thicket containing the dozing herd. This was not easy, the challenge being to creep up on sixty wary eyes and ears. They may be dozing, but they are never all down and out, in a breeding herd. After some considerable stealth and about an hour that felt like three we managed to find two females and a calf! It soon became apparent from the tracks that the rest were long gone. I had had this premonition when giving out the instructions before lunch, but my warnings and humanism had, as always dulled my, sensibilities. These two worthy men had obviously tried to get close and fucked it royally.

I have never believed in gratuities as a surety, finding the situation as embarrassing as saying goodbye, and it appeared that the Austrians agreed with me. The Germans however where very gracious and understood the difficulties of the hunt. Nobody much liked the rest and there was much grumbling from the working contingent. I find that a person must be evil before I will dislike, except perhaps if they are young and think they have learnt it all.