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IN THE SHADOW OF THE MOUNTAIN

Many, many years ago, when the valley was still young and inhabited only by wild animals and Vadoma, there lived a young man who went by the name Mavura. Mavura was born into an influential and powerful Vadoma family, his father a respected elder, held in high esteem by all and accountable only to the Chief himself. Mavura soon grew to be a popular figure – a natural leader, brave warrior and extremely skilled hunter. In time, Mavura proposed to and married the Chief’s favourite daughter, simultaneously elevating his own rank and further cementing his family’s standing in the community. Yes, Mavura certainly became a man of means in the land of the Vadoma.

Mavura was a hunter and a highly proficient one. Where others failed, Mavura delivered. He knew the bush better than any living man and was intimately acquainted with the habits of the animals he hunted. When Mavura hunted, success was almost guaranteed, meat and honey plentiful. Mavura hunted throughout the great valley – from the mighty river in the north, across the vastness of the valley itself, up into the rugged escarpment. Always, contrary to the norm, he hunted alone. At times Mavura would be gone for weeks, searching for new hunting grounds.
In most African culture, diviner consultation is of paramount importance, particularly when pertaining to really important issues, specifically food supply and consequently tribal survival – the Vadoma are no exception. One day, Mavura approached – as he usually would – the village mudzimu, in order to obtain his spiritual blessing before setting out on a hunt. Now it is said that Mavura, lad about town so to speak, was something of a spiritual sceptic. Much as the modern day western gang-leader would scorn conformity and the church, Mavura would often disregard the wise words of the elders and, more importantly, those of the all-powerful mudzimu. Although the young men and boys of the tribe idolized Mavura for his outspokenness and prowess as a fighter and hunter, most of the elders considered him somewhat arrogant and hotheaded. As is normal in any society, the presence and objective opinion of certain levelheaded mediators usually managed to maintain some semblance of balance – compromise between experience and exuberance if you will. At that time, the mudzimu was a man known as Debvujena (Greybeard) and he was fittingly named. No living man had ever seen a beard such as Debvujena’s. Long and grey, it would, even if meticulously braided, reach the ground when the old man squatted on a low stool holding counsel. It was widely rumored that the longer and greyer Debvujena’s beard became, the more powerful a mudzimu he became. If this was truly the case, then he must indeed be a mighty man.
It was whilst seated on his stool of counsel, addressing a small group of young hunters, that Debvujena finally lost patience with the impertinence of Mavura. Attempting to leap to his feet in anger, the old man erroneously stepped on the extremity of his impressive beard and, howling and hopping around in pain, tipped himself head over heels, backwards over the stool. Floundering and cursing in the dust, the respected medium eventually regained his feet, though any degree of composure continued to elude him. Although there were a few stifled giggles, no person dared to laugh out loud. Pointing a gnarled, menacing finger accusingly at a smirking Mavura, Debvujena, for the first time that anyone could remember, totally lost control. Spitting wrath, the spiritual leader loudly and publicly condemned the arrogance of the over confident Mavura and, in a loud voice that the entire village heard, challenged the famed hunter to, ‘Hunt where you like, when you like, and reap the consequences!’ With that, Mavura calmly stood, retrieving his hunting spear from the ground at his side and, without a backward glance, totally scorning tradition, strode purposefully away from the village and into the wild Zambezi Valley.
Now it was well known that Mavura’s favourite hunting haunts were in the area surrounding and, indeed, on the very slopes of Chiramba Kadoma* itself. In fact, in those days, Chiramba Kadoma, Mashambanzou and the game rich Mkanga Valley** were some of every Vadoma hunter’s preferred hunting grounds. The mountains and the valley complemented each other well, the former for honey and the latter for meat. It soon spread throughout the small community that Debvujena’s outburst had been Chiramba Kadoma orientated, and that the entire counsel with the hunters had in fact revolved around talk of that place. It transpired that the medium had advised the hunters not to hunt that lunar period in the vicinity of Chiramba Kadoma, that the spirits had warned against it. Predictably, the over-zealous Mavura had argued the issue and ultimately pushed Debvujena into erupting. It was assumed by most people that the impetuous Mavura would make straight for his favourite hunting area, defying everything the aged diviner and the spirits stood for. In the aftermath of Mavura’s disrespectful departure, the talk around the evenings fire glow revolved around that man’s whereabouts, about whether or not he had chosen to directly challenge the spirits. Whenever the popular opinion was voiced, several greybeards were seen, in the humble firelight, to be shaking their heads in sorrow.

* Obviously not called Chiramba Kadoma back then. Though I have researched diligently I am not able to trace the pre Chiramba Kadoma name of this mountain. After all, that name only existed many, many years ago, when the valley was still young and inhabited only by wild animals and Vadoma.
** The original home-place of Vadoma.

Of course, Mavura never returned. To this day theories and assumptions are bandied about, but no-one knows for certain what became of the man. One common belief, which each and every tribe member has always agreed upon, is that Mavura returned to the mountain. In time, a famed council attended by all the tribal elders was called. The assemblage was presided over by Mavura’s own father-in-law, the Chief, and Debvujena, the all-powerful spirit medium. It was agreed upon by all and sundry at that historical council that, according to the wishes of the spirits, no person would ever again operate, for any reason, within the parameters of Chiramba Kadoma Mountain. And so the legend was born.

In the year 1968, a large group of approximately one hundred heavily armed Zimbabwean freedom fighters (Rhodesian guerrilla insurgents) crossed the Zambezi River into what was then Rhodesia. Their goal was to destabilize the country through proactive means – essentially Communist orientated terror warfare – and in so doing, force the steel hand of Ian Smith and his Rhodesia Front Party into bringing about majority rule in Rhodesia. The fighters crossed the Zambezi in dugout canoes under cover of darkness, at a narrow place known as Mupata Gorge. Once in Rhodesian territory, they split up into smaller groups of between twenty and thirty men and set off to various prearranged base camps. One of the groups had instructions to base up in an area close to Chiramba Kadoma Mountain. Amongst this group’s number was a man who was familiar with Chiramba Kadoma and the many mysterious legends associated with that place. This man proposed basing up on the actual mountain itself, the logic being that they would never be discovered in an area where nobody dared go. There was opposition to the proposal as some feared offending the spirits. The spirits hold much sway in Africa, even over hardened young soldiers such as those particular men. Eventually the fighters agreed to establish a semi-permanent camp on the mountain, rationalizing that the spirits were those of black people and not of the Rhodesian Government. It was generally agreed that the spirits would practice leniency, seeing the situation for what it was – the collective cause and will of the people, the struggle for freedom. The fighters set off, marching through the moonlit night toward the imposing flat-topped mountain in the south. In the early morning they reached, and subsequently ascended, Chiramba Kadoma Mountain. They were the first people to do so in a very long time. Unfortunately for those men, nobody had primed the wrathful spirits of Chiramba Kadoma.
At the same time, down in the Mkanga Valley, two National Parks rangers were nearing the end of a routine two-week patrol. Before returning to Mkanga Parks Post, the rangers had planned to spend a couple of days scouting about in the vicinity of Chiramba Kadoma, looking for poachers and evaluating wildlife populations in the area. Both men were reasonably familiar with Chewore and local legend and they harboured no intentions of approaching the mountain too closely. It was not long before the rangers discovered the ineffectually disguised spoor of the insurgents. At that turbulent time in history, the country was on full security alert and the Parks men had no difficulty determining that the spoor was that of a large group of guerrillas. Cautiously, with the threat of confronting the fighters not foremost in their minds, the two men tracked the guerrilla gang to a place not far from the legendary mountain. Then, after correctly deducing that the gang was holed up on the mountain, the rangers retreated to a safe position and radioed in a report to Mkanga, summarizing the situation on the ground. Mere hours later, the Rhodesian Airforce unleashed a massive attack on Chiramba Kadoma, bombing it throughout the day. The attack was conclusive, with most of the gang being wiped out by the barrage. Few of the fighters escaped from the mountain and those that did were harangued all the way back to the Zambezi by the army. Amongst the locals, it is said that those who dared defy the spirits of the mountain perished on that day. Evidently the fight for freedom was not cause enough to appease the vengeful, uncompromising spirits of Chiramba Kadoma.

The year is 1988 and professional hunter Roger Whittall is hunting buffalo with his son Guy, aged sixteen, in the Mkanga Valley. Under the experienced guidance of his father, Guy is hoping to hunt and shoot a buffalo bull. Accompanying the father and son team are young professional hunter Joe Wright, and Magara, Roger’s trusted and competent tracker. The hunters spend several days tracking and approaching buffalo, giving Guy valuable exposure to buffalo hunting. There is no urgency for there is time at their disposal and the hunters intend drawing out the hunt for as long as they possibly can. All and sundry are enjoying themselves thoroughly, down there in the Mkanga Valley. The hunting party comes up on countless buffalo for they are plentiful in this area.
One day, after spending the early morning tracking a small group of dagga boys in a northwesterly direction amongst the foothills of the Mashambanzou Range, the hunters find themselves to be in close proximity to Chiramba Kadoma Mountain. For a short distance further they follow the buffalo tracks, ever closer toward the controversial mountain. Soon they are very close, in the very shadow of the mountain looming menacingly above. Magara suddenly stops, stating that he will go no further, that they are entering a forbidden area. He is emphatic and no amount of logical (Christian influenced) reasoning will change his mind. He says that any person who dares to go further does so against his advice, and at his own peril. Arranging to await the hunters’ return at an agreed upon point further back on the trail, far from the mountain, Magara, with a relieved Parks game scout in tow, hurriedly makes off. The hunters confer briefly, discussing the option of turning back. Even with the dire warnings of Magara still ringing loudly in their ears, they decide to press on. The dagga boy tracks indicate large bulls and, unlike Magara and the game scout, their passion for buffalo hunting far exceeds their fear of the spirits. In any case, civilized men cannot allow superstition and witchcraft to dictate their actions, can they? The white men soon reach the base of Chiramba Kadoma and find that the buffalo have changed tack, opting to skirt the mountain as opposed to ascending it. Chiramba Kadoma is a steep mountain, a daunting challenge for even three tough, battle-hardened dagga boys. In due course the men come up on the buffalo, resting in a small thicket set in close to the mountain’s base. Undetected, the hunters judge the bulls in leisurely fashion, before deciding that none of them quite make the standard. They retreat without disturbing the buffalo, retracing their steps back to the meeting place with Magara.
Later, after having abandoned hunting for the day, the hunters slowly wend their way in single file through the foothills, back to where they have left the vehicle. Magara and Roger are leading, followed by Joe, with young Guy and the game scout bringing up the rear. They are a weary bunch for they have hunted hard and the level of awareness is low. The trail they walk is hemmed in on either side by dense undergrowth and visibility is severely restricted. Without warning, all hell breaks loose.

Guy sees the buffalo first. It is standing hidden in thick bush not ten metres away, off to the right of the trail. Guy screams out a warning to his father and the buffalo simultaneously breaks cover. Head held high, the bull comes crashing through the scrub, directly at Roger and Magara. This buffalo has several things on its mind, all ultimately equating to violent death – to gore and toss, to trample, pound, crush and maim. Facing down a charge causes adrenalin to pump strongly through one’s veins. This increases reaction speed dramatically whilst outwardly slowing down the actual event. Roger Whittall spins around to face the buffalo, rifle butt instinctively finding his shoulder. In slow motion the bull comes purposefully on – immense bulk propelled by sheer fury, gouging hooves tearing the earth up in its frenzy to obliterate. Mere yards separate attacker and attacked, and the bull’s massive, boss-fronted cranium is completely lowered now, preparing for the toss. The shot, when it finally comes, is again instinctive and taken at the last possible instant.
Instinct and adrenalin are a fine combination when working cohesively as they should, and Roger Whittall attests to the fact that, on that particular day, it was those two God given attributes that saved at least one life, possibly more.
“In a situation like that you do not think,” he says, “you simply act. It’s a case of do or die, with no go-betweens.”
Fortunately for everyone concerned, Roger’s bullet hits the buffalo where base of skull joins spine – a killing shot in any situation. Instantly paralysed, felled and stone dead, the bull drops on top of where Roger Whittall had, seconds before, been standing. Insurance shots from both Magara and Roger serve as just that – pure insurance.
After the excitement the men are quiet for a long time, reflecting on what could have happened, had the odds been against. After a while, Roger approaches Magara and initiates conversation.
“Nyati achu ya svika pa dusi.” “That buffalo got close,” he says.
From his position crouching in the dust Magara looks up. For long drawn out minutes he regards his long-time hunting partner thoughtfully.
“Chokwadi,” “That is the truth,” says Magara, “ya svika pa dusi chaizo.” “It got close indeed, too close.”
What Magara says next is not what anyone wishes to hear.
“I told you not to go to the mountain.”
The silence following this statement is oppressive. The minutes slowly tick by before Magara continues.
“I told you not to go to the mountain and you chose to ignore my warning. That buffalo,” he indicates the fallen carcass, “was a dire warning from the spirits who, through their powers, momentarily closed our eyes and almost left us to walk right onto the angry bull. The spirits have been merciful for they granted us our sight at the last instant. It is truly fortunate that you kept close to ground level and did not attempt to climb higher, into the mountain itself. Had you been that arrogant, this incident would have been something far more conclusive than a mere caution. Then our eyes would have been shut permanently. We have been fortunate indeed.”
With that, Magara stands and shoulders his rifle.
“It is getting late,” he says, “let us be off.”
Magara walks off down the dusty footpath, leaving a contemplative group of hunters watching his departing form. Roger Whittall can only think how surprising it is that Magara knew they had stuck to the base of the mountain. The hunters had been gone a long time and, after meeting up again with Magara, communication had been decidedly lacking. They had all been, for different reasons that only men understand, somewhat irritated by one another. The fact is, nobody told Magara anything about the earlier excursion into the vicinity of Chiramba Kadoma. And yet he knew.

The light is rapidly fading and the hunters are making haste, hoping to reach the vehicle before total darkness descends. Magara, who is leading as usual, suddenly jumps to the side, startled. Everyone is very edgy now and more than one man readies himself for action. It turns out to be a false alarm, only a little rabbit that Magara has almost trodden on. As the group makes off again, Magara is overheard muttering under his breath, muttering something about spirits. About spirits and faulty eyesight.