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Here is another one from 'The Shangaan Song'. Please note that I am not psoting these stories in any particular order and they are written in the present tense, as if it were happening right now. For instance, my brother is no longer 28 but 38!! The photos at the end are poor but give you an idea. I only have them in the book format at the moment and cannot figure how to get them intio another program. I promise they look much better in the book!

THE MANEATER OF THE NYAODZA

Crocodile stories are legion in Africa and this is just another. Crocodiles are impressive in that, not only are they one of the longest surviving creatures on earth, but are also the ultimate killing machines. In its own environment, nothing can compare to the combination of this reptile’s speed and power, and that is obviously the reason for its survival. As well as being most impressive creatures, crocodiles also instil great terror in people. The thought of being killed by a crocodile has always been my greatest fear, a greater fear than dying by either fire or mamba bite. That is the extent of the dread these creatures are capable of instilling. Many other Africans feel the same way as I, and crocodiles are accorded huge respect and significant spiritual status amongst rural African communities. I treat crocodiles with far more than respect; I just don’t go there any longer. ‘There’ being close to any water where a croc may possibly be lurking. Very difficult for an ardent fisherman!

Aged only twenty-eight, my brother Jonathan is already a competent big game hunter with over ten years experience. Jonny freelances and much of his time is spent hunting the spectacular Zambezi Valley, contracted to various hunting operators. Although I shall surely be accused of bias, the fact is that Jonny is an extremely skilled hunter, his services in demand. Because of this, he hunts for much of the year with little downtime. Jonny is most satisfied with the arrangement and actually becomes difficult to live with when not ‘out there’ in active pursuit. Hunting is in the genes of man but is more so in the jeans of Jonny. When forced to take a few days off, Jonny and his loyal trackers (Amos and Clever) come home with many tales of action and adventure from the bush, regaling us all with exciting stories from their most recent excursions into Africa’s remote hunting grounds. Until they get itchy feet and head off once more that is. One such story, which made quite an impression on me, is the one that follows.

“That hunt was an extreme challenge from the word go,” says Jonny. “A Zambezi Valley elephant hunt in December of a good rainy season, well you can imagine what it was like. I had never before, and have never since, operated terrain like that. The bush was so dense it made everything I had so far hunted look like a walk in the park. The roads were quagmires and we spent a lot of time stuck and winching ourselves out. I warned my client Dennis Frings of all this beforehand, when he booked the hunt. Being a seriously committed elephant hunter he went ahead and booked anyway. That was the great thing about hunting with Dennis – he was a serious hunter. He was looking for a good bull, sixty pounds or more, and he wouldn’t settle for less. He knew our chances were slim at the year’s end, or any time for that matter, and yet he was prepared to take the gamble. Dennis is one of those guys that live for the hunt.

“We tracked, approached and judged many, many elephant on that safari – unfortunately nothing made the grade. On reflection I reckon we looked at well over fifty bulls without seeing anything suitable. As I have already said, the going was tough. Obviously most of our time was spent on spoor, walking unbelievably prohibitive terrain. Working those elephant paths through that saturated, dripping jesse was daunting, time consuming toil, to say the very least. We had our objective however, and we stuck to our guns. On one occasion we came up on a bull carrying about sixty pounds. Frustratingly, he was only carrying one side, the other tusk broken off close to the lip. We re-intensified our efforts.

“Everybody has a mamba story or two to tell, but how often do we actually come across these snakes in the bush? Not often and that’s the truth. Twenty-eight years of living in mamba populated areas and I’ve probably seen about fifty mambas, that’s also the truth. Two sighted for every year of my life, maybe. And yet, on that hunt alone we came across two, and let me assure you we came across them! Up close and personal! On both occasions they attacked without warning and I have never witnessed this before. As you know, although these snakes have a reputation second to none, mamba attacks are rare. They, like any other wild animal, prefer to be left alone and in peace. Those two mambas did not prefer to be left alone however, and they came actively seeking conflict. Now I know that many mamba stories are exaggerated, to an extent at least, and I don’t want to do that here. I shall try to tell it as it happened. But bear in mind that the happenings on that hunt did have a huge effect on me, and on everyone else present. Yes, that hunt was truly extraordinary.

“The first incident occurred whilst we were driving a really primitive hunting track through some broken country close to the escarpment. I was negotiating the Cruiser down a steep incline into a narrow bush choked gully, Dennis in the passenger seat beside me, when excited cries from the rear caused me to brake sharply. Braking was a mistake that was fortunately negated by circumstance. The wheels locked but only managed to gain purchase briefly on the slippery incline. During the moment we were stationary, a mamba struck at and connected the vehicle twice, though I never actually saw the first strike. As the cries from the rear grew louder, I turned in the seat, facing out the window. Before seeing the snake, I loudly enquired ‘Chi cho?’ ‘What is it?’ And then, as the vehicle lost its grip and began sliding, I saw the mamba from the corner of my eye. Raising itself from the long grass on the road verge slightly behind the cab, and attaining an incredible height above ground level, the snake was in the process of implementing the second strike. I was dumbstruck and my foot remained firmly depressed on the brake. The entire enactment took place in a millisecond in any case, and the mamba hit the vehicle for the second time. We slid down into the chikowa, and thankfully the third strike (if there was one) never connected. I opted not to hang about the vicinity and powered the Cruiser up the opposite bank, further on down the road, away from the scene. Fortunately, the tires performed their function this time.

“Amos, Clever and the National Parks scout were all badly shaken by the incident. Amos in particular was a bit of a wreck, having come closest to receiving an injection of mamba venom. Everyone knows what happens after this. As I said, the mamba struck twice, both times fortunately connecting with metal. The guys told me that the first strike hit the roll-bar, mere centimetres from where Amos was sitting on the hunting seat. The second strike made contact with the bin, near the tailgate. We all took time to cool off and chat a bit before continuing on our way. Little did anyone realize then, but that incident would not be close to the most impressionable event provided by that hunt. A lot more was to come.

“A few days later we were following promising elephant spoor along a narrow, hemmed in elephant path, through some thick jesse not far from the Nyaodza River. It was there that the second mamba incident took place. Clever had just dropped back in the line to tie a bootlace, and was bringing up the rear, when the mamba struck. After reconstructing events later, it was thought that the mamba, which was entwined in overhanging branches under which we passed, struck at the game scout and missed. It subsequently overbalanced, slipped from its limb, and landed squarely across the unfortunate shoulders of Clever. Can you believe that! Sensing commotion behind, I turned in time to see Clever flick the snake instinctively from him, and bolt like an Olympic sprinter into the supposedly impregnable jesse. Again, it all happened in a flash and it was remarkable that nobody received a bite. The snake actually struck at and missed Clever at least once – a miracle really. That mamba was huge and, as it made off through the long grass, shimmering fronds betrayed its progress. There were men bolting in all directions and obviously I didn’t try and shoot it. What are you going to do with a heavy calibre rifle anyway? And of course there was no time. That snake was there and then it was gone, in a blur of mind-boggling speed. I saw that mamba more clearly than the previous one and I don’t believe I have ever seen any bigger. Granted, the situation heightened senses dramatically, but nonetheless the size of that snake was phenomenal.

“If the first mamba attack got the trackers a little shaken, the second very nearly pushed them over the edge. In most African culture there is reason for every occurrence, and the second mamba was more than enough of both occurrence and reason for Amos, Clever and the game scout. The rest of the day was spent in silence as everyone thought about it, or tried not to think about it. That evening back at camp, Amos came to my sleeping tent.

“Boss, handisi ku fara.” “Boss, I am not happy,” he said.

I decided against telling him that he should be happy he was still alive, and instead asked what could possibly be bothering him.

“Ma rowambira* achu, ne imwe nyaya. Pane mushonga pano.” “These black
mambas and other things, there is bad medicine in this place.”

*Rovambira literally means ‘striker of rock-rabbits’, the rock rabbit (dassie) being favourite
prey of the mamba.

I agreed that the mambas had indeed been frightening, but said that incidents like it do happen and that it meant nothing, certainly not that there was bad mushonga involved. I then asked what else was bothering him. Amos explained that stories regarding several strange disappearances had reached camp from a nearby fishing village, and that all the camp staff were understandably concerned. Now, as you well know, Africans, particularly Zambezi Valley dwellers, are extremely superstitious. Someone does not simply get eaten by a lion or bitten by a snake or die prematurely from illness. There is always an involved explanation for such a happening; always it is spiritually orientated. Most often the deceased, or someone close to that person, has seriously offended the spirits in some way. The majority of unnatural deaths that occur in the majority of rural Africa are rationalized in this fashion – it is the retribution of the all-powerful spirit world. The same is true of individuals or families that have been blessed with good fortune, they are said to have pleased the spirits.

“Anyhow, the talk about the woods was that several men had mysteriously vanished and that evil was most certainly at play. It was said that everyone should tread very carefully when going about their business. The disappearances, added to the unnatural behaviour of the two mambas, were almost too much happening for Amos. He said that the mamba attacks were warnings that should not be ignored, and that he didn’t feel we should be hunting the valley at this time of the year. He said that we had never hunted the Zambezi in December before, and that hunting this late in the season was, like the attacking mambas, unnatural. Amos even went to the extent of saying that he felt we should bring the hunt to a close as soon as possible. Amos lives for the hunt and this comment was most uncharacteristic. Never before or since has he said anything like that, and the power of his conviction actually shook me up a little. Events were certainly having a profound effect on Mr Amos Magungu. Anyway, I finally persuaded him to see what I considered reason and to calm down. There were only a few days left of the hunt and we owed it to our friend Dennis to focus totally on bringing his hunt to a successful conclusion, or to sweat great quantities in the attempt. I asked Amos how long we had worked together and whether he thought I would allow any harm to come to any member of the team. He replied that a wounded and charging lion was one thing, but a wounded and charging lion propelled by the spirits was a completely different ballgame. Nobody has more power than the spirits in Africa. Anyhow, though still muttering and visibly disturbed, Amos left calmer than when he arrived, saying he would meet me early in the morning for hunting, that the sooner we got this elephant out of the way and went home the better.

“Over pre-dawn coffee the next morning, I told Dennis about Amos’s visit of the previous night, and of the mysterious disappearances at the nearby village. I warned him that the guys might begin to appear less keen than before, explaining why this may happen. Though Dennis was no stranger to Africa and African ways, I wanted him to be fully briefed before he picked up on any strange behaviour. Dennis had hunted with me several times before and we knew each other pretty well. He said he trusted my judgment and would go along with anything I suggested. I suggested we go elephant hunting. We had less than a week left and needed to cover as much territory as was humanly possible in that time. I finished off my coffee telling Dennis that I did not think the trackers and camp staff would let us down. Amos had assured me this would not happen and I knew his word was good. As you well know, Amos is my best friend and most trusted confidant of many years. Conversely though, I also knew of the powerful influence the spirits have over most Africans – still do. That was what worried me more than anything.

“To their credit, none of the guys upset the apple cart. Although it was obvious to me that fear dominated, the men put their heads down and performed commendably. We walked a great distance that last week, following individual bulls and small bachelor groups relentlessly. As was the case before, we came up on many bulls. As was also the case before, nothing made the grade. It was on the third last day, whilst following the tracks of a lone bull along the Nyaodza River, a preferred hunting area of mine, that we saw the crocodile. For reasons that shall become clear, that crocodile completely stole the show, defocusing us wholly from elephant hunting for the remainder of the safari.

“We had been following the bull since early morning and by noon it was showing no sign of slowing up. Nearing the end of its journey to Lake Kariba, the Nyaodza River bisects the boundary of Charara Safari Area – where we were hunting – and the Kaburi Wilderness Area, which has National Park status. I knew that we would soon come to this boundary and be forced to turn back. We had been tracking for about five or six hours, negotiating the prohibitive ravine painstakingly, when we reached the boundary and abandoned the chase.
Disappointed, we took a break and drank some water. And that was when Amos saw the croc. It was basking on a sandbank across the river on the Parks side, about a hundred yards away. Many crocs populate the Nyaodza and one encounters them regularly along its course. This croc however, was a croc with a difference. When Amos pointed it out, I saw immediately that it was a huge specimen, as large as any I had ever seen. Even its size would not have held our attention for too long though, were it not for the fact that Amos noted something that looked like a vundu (giant catfish) in its massive jaws. After all, we were on an elephant bull hunt and fast running out of hunting time. Added to which, Dennis did not want a croc and the beast was in the National Park even if he had wanted one. I shall forever remember the moment that I lifted my binoculars to get a better look at that crocodile. The binos were not initially focused and I spent a few seconds adjusting, suddenly the croc leapt into focus. I was totally shocked to see that it was not a vundu in the monster’s jaws, but a human leg – feet, toes and all. Hurriedly I dropped the binoculars from my eyes.

“It took us a couple of hours to get to the nearest National Parks post and report the man-eater. Predictably, it was difficult to get a decision from the personnel present. I told them that we would willingly shoot the croc, and that I felt we should, before it took someone else. I told the warden and rangers about the disappearing people, and that I believed the croc was responsible for more than one killing. After trying his utmost to confuse himself with bureaucracy, the warden accepted our offer to shoot the problem animal. I may have influenced his decision somewhat when I suggested that, if no action were taken, someone may be held responsible for any further deaths. Given the green light, we drove in rally-like fashion back to the Nyaodza.

“Dennis took the crocodile late in the afternoon with a perfectly placed brain shot from about seventy yards. After threshing convulsively on the sand for a while, the dead brain stilled the massive body. It turned out to be a truly awesome specimen, measuring over sixteen feet. After loading the weighty reptile into the Cruiser, and bagging the leg that it had not yet eaten, we made off back to camp. From there I contacted the local police by radio and told them what had transpired. Naturally, they were reluctant to come and retrieve the human parts that were obviously contained within the croc’s belly. After they had exhausted all of their excuses, and circumspectly asked me to carry out the task for them, I ran out of patience. I told them that my job was done with the shooting of the croc and that I was not authorized to do their work for them. Some time afterwards, the grumbling cops arrived at camp and set about their grisly task. Much partially digested human being came from out of that crocodile’s stomach.”

It was later determined that as many as five fishermen from several villages may have been killed by that croc over an inexplicable period of two months or so. Obviously Jonathan’s already God like status amongst the locals received an incredible boost from the incident described. Everyone was extremely grateful to know that the disappearances were not spiritually orientated, that a mere flesh and blood crocodile had been responsible all along. After all, had it been an angry spirit disguised as a crocodile, no bullet would have achieved what that hunter’s bullet managed. In Africa, spirits are able to turn bullets to water with very little effort.

(Added to Ezine)

Edited by Ezine (01/07/10 05:00 AM)

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