Cape buffalo.

I live in Zimbabwe, on my thousand acre ranch which has been in my family for generations, starting with my pioneer ancestor who came here in 1890 when Rhodesia was founded. Actually, I don’t use all thousand acres as a cattle ranch, but the land is so beautiful and raw, with acacia trees and the occasional baobab tree and Mukwa trees, teeming with antelope, giraffe, wildebeest, warthog, zebra, even lion and the occasional elephant traveling through, that I treasure it as a game reserve. It is about 50 miles outside Bulawayo, my hometown, past the airport along the Lonely Road where my grandfather had a dairy farm in the 1930’s and where my mother was born. In the high veld, temperate weather, not too hot, not cold. My ranch hands and their families live on the ranch, Ndebele tribesmen, hardworking, cheerful, knowledgeable in tracking and animal husbandry.

It is my private and personal slice of untouched, pristine African bushveld, my bit of paradise. So when some friends begged me to let them come hunting on it, I relented, and organized a hunting party just for them. I picked my best tracker, Patrick Nkomo, who has been in my employ since the Rhodesian bush war when he was under my command as a non commissioned officer in Intaff. He was tough, steady and reliable. Loyal. Definitely a man to have on your team. He knew his way around the bush. I would trust him with my life.

We started out driving out deep into the forest, far away from the ranch house, until Patrick saw some wildebeest tracks cross the dirt road. Then we got out to walk. We all had hunting rifles, water canteens, wearing large brimmed hats to ward off the sun. No talking was allowed. After about 2 miles we spotted a small herd of Cape buffalo, and my friend signaled that he wanted to shoot the large male. Patrick protested, stating that it would be a mistake, and didn’t we know that the Cape buffalo was the most dangerous animal in Africa, known as the widow maker, for its aggressive deadly attacks on humans if it is wounded, and will keep on fighting until it kills the hunter who injured it or killed one of his herd, or dies trying. But the lead hunter wouldn’t listen. He had the animal in his sights, a huge 1,000 lb specimen with large horns, and he was going to drop him in his tracks. We crept forward as close as we could, to get a good shot, and he aimed carefully for the side just behind the buffalo’s shoulder where his heart was located so that a clean kill would happen and the buffalo would drop dead immediately with no pain and no long pursuit would occur. The shot rang out, but the buffalo did not drop, but instead screamed out in pain and distress, charging off into the thick clump of trees in front of the herd, and disappeared from sight. The other members of the herd stampeded off and away from the hunting party, and Patrick swore loudly in Ndebele, and although I didn’t understand what he said, I knew it wasn’t good. We were in for a long day.

It was easy to track the wounded buffalo , the trail of broken trees, branches, plants and blood was obvious like a major freeway ploughing through the thick bush, and the going was fast. But after a few miles Patrick started getting nervous, and he and the junior tracker fell back, scanning the trail behind us and on both sides, leaving the rest of the hunting party to follow the wounded buffalo trail . His rifle was at the ready, as was the other tracker’s rifle, locked and loaded, safety off, just like during the war when we were on patrol. Patrick advised us all to do the same. Right about now the wounded buffalo, if he hadn’t collapsed from his injuries, or was dead, would have circled around and was behind us ready to attack and seek his vengeance on us. I was becoming scared, very scared. We might be able to kill the buffalo now, with all of us prepared and shooting at him, but chances are he would be able to kill one or more of us first. 1,000 lbs of angry buffalo charging straight at you is a formidable animal, and it could only have a bad outcome.

we couldn’t abandon the chase at this point, leaving a wounded animal to suffer in pain is bad, for the animal and for any human who crosses his path. There were small native villages scattered around on my ranch, and a wounded rampaging buffalo would cause much damage to those people unlucky enough to cross his path. So onward we went. I was going beyond hope that we would come across the dead body of the buffalo, but before we did, there was crashing of tree branches behind us, and in a mad rush the enraged buffalo came bursting onto the trail we were following left behind by the buffalo, and Patrick was the first to shoot, followed by everyone else. We couldn’t shoot the buffalo in the head, because his thick broad shield of horn protected his brain pan, so we had to aim for his neck and chest. He was on us in an instant, and he gored two of the guest hunters. Their screams mingled with the buffalo’s screams, and the noise will never leave me. My nightmares were filled with that noise forever.

the buffalo collapsed, dying slowly, his breathing ragged and heavy as he refused to give up the fight, but his failing body would not co-operate. Soon, he died, and we sprang into action. The junior tracker radioed the truck we had come in on to drive to us with the medical supplies, while we gave immediate medical attention to the two wounded men. One was seriously injured, his torso slashed and pierced deeply by the huge black horn of the buffalo. The other man died in our arms. The truck arrived in a cloud of dust, crashing through the trees, making its own road, and destroying the metal skin and glass windshield of the land rover as it forced its way through the thick bush. We loaded the injured man first, then the rest of us piled on, and the truck reversed course, going back the way it had come and then onto Bulawayo and the emergency room at the hospital. All the time we administered attention to the injured man., but there wasn’t much we could do. But it was enough, he made it to the hospital alive, where the doctors took over. I stayed behind, while Patrick went back to the ranch with the men to retrieve the dead buffalo. It definitely was a long day.

I’m not ever going to hunt a Cape buffalo again.