Lion kills three brothers-The Herald January 15, 2008A LONE lion last week killed three brothers in Mashumbi Pools in the Dande communal lands in Guruve.The lion killed Levison (25), Lawrence (73) and Michael (80) of Monozi village under Chief Chitsungo.Mashonaland Central police spokesperson Inspector Michael Munyikwa said the lion had since been hunted down and killed.He said the remains of the three villagers were recovered from the lion’’shideout.InspMunyikwa said the lion first attacked Levison who had gone out of his bedroom to relieve himself at around 1 am.Levison, said Insp Munyikwa, had been sharing the bedroom with his nephew who heard the noise of the attack and rushed out, only to withdraw after seeing the lion.Six hours later, the nephew watched in disbelief from the window as the lion sprang and killed Lawrence who was arriving home from a journey.The nephew stormed out of the hut in a bid to rescue his uncle but the lion charged at him. The nephew ran away and at the same time raising alarm. Villagers who heard the screaming for help were on their way to the homestead when the lion charged at them. The lion managed to catch up with the 80-year-old Michael before killing him and dragging his body to its hideout, about 300 metres away from the homestead.The lion was killed in a joint operation by police, National Parks and Wildlife Management Authority and Mbire Wildlife Conservation and Anti-poaching unit. —— Bindura Bureau.

How not to hunt lions



There is something unique about hunting a super predator. About hunting an animal that may well be hunting you. It is not as if this is a common occurrence, but it happens often enough (see newspaper article above) just so that you know it’s not a myth. The last three instances here in Zimbabwe were a hapless tribesman who fell asleep while tending his cattle, a National parks game scout walking drunkenly back to his house after the inevitable “first Friday night after pay day”, and an English tourist on a back packing safari who didn’t zip up his tent door on the one night in the year when he needed to. On my last visit to South Africa, the Citizen newspaper carried a leading story about a lion that killed a border jumper and then dragged his body through a northern Province town just to boast (and got away with it). In the past decade there have been two notorious man eaters in Zimbabwe, who munched down a good dozen or so people, but most of the incidents seem to be “one offs”. Several hunters have been injured by lion, but it is a long time since I heard of one not making it home.

Never-the-less, the knowledge that you are considerably further down the food chain in the natural scheme of things certainly makes a lion hunt both interesting and exciting. In many ways it is a good job that there is feeling. Most lion hunts otherwise would be dead boring, with nine out of ten caracal hunts being more exciting, and 99 out of 100 kudu hunts being more challenging... for it is only when things do not go as planned that you hear the desperate bellow of “ Medic!!!!, HELP” on the still morning or evening air.


My introduction to lion hunting came as a boy. My father was an engineer but ranched a few cattle on the 6000ha property and there was a constant problem with lion. Every two or three months a pride would cross over from Botswana, kill a few steers in the ranches on our side of the border, and then slip back into the wildlife area on the Botswana side. Very occasionally one of them would get cheeky and take a herdsman instead of a cow just to keep people on their toes. A couple of farmers made a serious effort to control the lion, but most simply asked the keen ones to deal with the problem if it occurred on their properties. My Father was singularly contemptuous of lion.“Mangy, smelly, flea ridden, lazy cowards - by day” he would comment. Indeed the bushmen (Bushman- Properly Koisan or simply San- the little people that speak with mostly clicks in their language-67altogeth) kids who were my playmates at the Mission School would tell stories of how their parents over the border would often chase lion off their kills to get the meat simply by shouting and throwing sticks. A small group would move forward with much shouting and waving of arms, whilst the lion would “defend” their kills with much roaring and short, mock charges. After getting hit by a few well aimed sticks though the lion would give up and slink away leaving the bushmen to the meal. I saw it for myself twice and my father strongly suspected that the bushmen obtained much of their meat by followed the lions around waiting for them to make a kill and then driving them off it. It was only after being harried and robbed of their dinners for weeks on end that a pride would decide to risk a foray over the fence into the land of rifles and strychnine. One of my fathers Sanherdsmen limped into the house one day, a little the worse for wear. Six lion had killed one of the cows he was looking after. Rather than let the lions get the meat, especially as at least one of them was likely to get shot he decided to chase them off by himself. Using his “issue” catapult he let go a barrage of small stones. The lioness’ gave up easily, but the pride male was a different story. He had obviously had enough of being disturbed from his meals that his mistresses had worked so hard to obtain, and put in a determined attack. The little bushman saw the charge develop and knew this one was for real, so, no convenient trees being handy to climb, he merely lay down and protected his neck with his hands. The lion stopped on top of him, clouted him a few times with his paws and even tried a chew on the one leg, before giving up and moving off. As my mother patched him up, the herdsman explained that he had often done the same when he was growing up, and even pointed to some old scars on his back which came from a similar incident at least 20 years earlier.

My father’s technique for problem lion was very simple. He would ask one of his San herdsmen to track for him and they would follow the pride from the kill to where they were resting up. He would then shoot one, and the remainder of the pride would depart at speed for the border. His rifle was a standard 7.9 Mauser, model B, and the Kynock ammunition worked just fine. In over fifty lion that I remember him shooting I do not recall him needing more than one shot. It wasn’t always that simple though. Lion may not be bright animals but they aren’t totally dumb. They knew that the one particular four strand cattle fence and the road running along side it spelt safety. Occasionally a pride would figure out the plot and stage sneak attacks across the fence at night, making a quick kill and dashing back before daylight. Greed though always got the better of them though and they never could resist a bait staked out just over the border. In the war days when any nocturnal movement was little short of suicidal the carcass was poisoned.

When I tuned 14 I could legally own and carry a centre fire rifle and a .22 handgun and also get a licence for a light motorcycle – Mt father had bought me a little Honda Monkey Bike when I was 11 and started high school. With the war on it was a lot safer for me to ride the 40km to school on the bush paths than taking a car and risk hitting a landmine. Typically Bushmen kids would finish Junior school at the mission age about 12 and then disappear into the Kalahari with their families. The son of the Forman of the mine on our place was my best friend. His father was a “coloured” (ie of mixed European and African ancestry) but his mother was pure San. I still don’t like Piet (the father) but Jan is still a very close friend: Piet insisted his children would go to high school so Jan would ride as a passenger on the monkey bike. From the age of 12 you could legally own a .22 rifle and I had a .22LR for target shooting and a CZ .22 Mag for killing things. I also had a high standard revolver in .22mag for real with a spare cylinder in .22LR for practice. I had carried the revolver since the first day at high school- I simply handed it in at the front office when I got to school and picked it up when I left. The letter of the law was irrelevant, and I did the same with my rifles (I always lent Jan the .22Mag so he could shoot while I concentrated on getting away). Anyway, once I had a .22Magnum rifle I could shoot the odd impala for visiting clans of bushmen coming to visit their children at the mission. As the war grew worse, many farmers opted for offering good bounties on lion and leopard and let somebody else take the risk. I was happy to, and Jan bought along two of the older San kids to act as trackers and one hour later I had shot a leopard and split the $500 bounty with Jan and the two San – who promptly rushed off to the store Jan’s mother ran catering to both the Africans in the tribal land 6km North of us and the San who frequently passed though. The desires of the San and Africans were completely different, but ‘n!xa ran it well. Cheetah had a $2000 bounty on them because they were difficult to hunt by conventional means and it was illegal to shoot one. Lets just leave it at that at 14 I could start learning to fly and when I turned 16 I could buy a decent landrover

Being inadequately armed I steered clear of lion and my dad wouldn’t let me use his rifle and the spare 303 and .577/.450 carbines didn’t seem adequate so I had to wait until I was 14 to have a go at lion.They had a $2500 bounty for a male and $1500 for a female. It was only a few weeks after turning 14 that a call went out that a pride of lions had taken three cows on a nearby farm. There were no other Bushmen to help and also it quite a distance, so Jan would act as tracker alone. He rode pinion until we reached the carcass of the freshest kill, and then he sat on he on the handlebars with his feet on the front mudguard while I concentrated on following his directions. After about an hour traveling at about 15-20km per hour, Jan told me to stop as the pride was very close.I parked the bike and we moved forward quickly. Like every bushman I have ever known Jan could literally run while tracking an animal. 3 females and one big male he told me quietly…and I could only see the occasional track. Up a head we could see a small grove of knobthorn trees which offed good shade( it was well over 40°C and shade was in short supply). They will be under those trees Jan confidently informed me, “how many are you going to try and shoot?” “Male first and then as many of the lionesses as I can” I replied. We slowed our pace and tuned left so we could approach the grove from down wind. Sure enough, just as Jan had predicted the Lions were lying in the shade. They hadn’t even got to their feet when I put a bullet into the male. He immediately ran off, and the three lionesses jumped up, getting ready to charge -They crouch down flick the tail a few times and then come – at 80km/h. I didn’t wait, and shot the nearest lioness in the throat, got a good shot into the second one just as she began her charge and she simply folded over .I reloaded as fast as I could while dropping to kneeling to face the charge of the third lioness .I hit her in the chest but she didn’t seem to notice, and smacked into me at full speed sending me flying for a good 5 m or so. I hung onto my rifle reloaded and sat up as she turned in for the kill.(from kneeling or sitting you have the best angle to stop a charge as lion come in low and fast- If you are standing you have to shoot downwards and factor in the lions speed before you shoot). My fifth bullet hit her in the throat and that was lights out for her, I was just trying to pick myself up when Jan(who had wisely climbed a tree) shouted that the male was coming back. I reloaded 3 rounds from the pouch on my belt when I saw him and slammed the action shut. He was badly hit and was running rather than charging and my first bullet stopped him. I put another bullet in and then he turned to run away and I got a raking shot in. This time I reloaded before trying to pick myself up – it felt like every rib was broken and just breathing was painful. Jan called from his vantage pint up the tree that the male was down. I limped over and explained that everything hurt like hell and I was content to wait a couple of minutes until we were sure he was dead because I didn’t feel up to firing another shot. After about five minutes Jan climbed down and asked for my revolver. First he put a brain shot into each of the lionesses and then told me to follow him while he made sure the male was dead. He appeared to be, but following to old adage ‘it the dead ones that kill you’ Jan put a bullet into his brain. The ride to the farm house was a nightmare for me, but the farmer was overjoyed and sent a tractor and trailer off to collect the dead lions and while his wife pored Hydrogen Peroxide into the claw wounds to help prevent infection(Lions have never learned to brush their teeth or clear their claws so there is rotting meat full of interesting but nasty bacteria) he put my bike in the back of the Landrover and then took me to Hospital and then took Jan and my bike home. The X-ray showed I had 6 broken ribs, and two neck vertebra dislocated requiring manipulation under anaesthetic. In the meantime Jan had gone to see my father (who was the local Justice of the Peace) and made it clear that as soon as the local district council paid the bounty that he wanted a letter of recommendation so he could buy a 12g shotgun and a revolver, he also used some of the money to buy a Honda Monkey bike like mine. It was my first lesson that all ammo is not created equal! The old Kynock soft points hadn’t penetrated well at all, and only side shots and neck shots actually penetrated adequately. I used a fraction of my share to buy my first reloading kit.

How not to hunt lions

Part 2

With the coming of peace though more active steps were taken by some to eradicate the lion. My father steered clear of these night times efforts to shoot lion. “I don’t have the rifle for it”, he said,” and they own the night. The lazy coward by day becomes a fierce killer the moment the sun sets. You need at least a 9,3 and preferably a .404, and it must wear a good scope if you are going to try night work” and he left it at that. In retrospect it would appear that most of his neighbours held the same view and it always seemed to be the older boys rather than the older men who sat in the blinds near the border waiting for the lion to come in.

I was nearly fifteen before I was invited along for a night hunt. Six cattle had been taken in a fortnight by a small pride that had figured out the quick in-and-out by night trick. One had been ours but the rest was the neighbour’s, and his 18 year old son was determined to sort the problem out. I can’t say that my father was enamoured of the plan when I told him what I was up to. He went and had a look at the blind to make sure that it was properly built - it was-Schalk’s Father had built it and had used 3" steam pipe to reinforce the front. He also borrowed a ‘scoped .375 for me to use and some good Norma soft points.. To say that that hunt was an education would be masterpiece of understatement. Both of us went into it with supreme confidence. Both of us had seen plenty of dozy, well fed lion shot by day and, really, there was nothing to it.

We were comfortablysettled into the blind well before dusk. A drag had been carried out (illegally) up and down the border road (it was on the Botswana side of the fence) and the quarter eaten remains of their last kill tied with a chain to a suitable dead stop sunk deep into the sand. Neither of us really expected anything to happen since at least 90% of these excursions seemed to end in failure.

It was barely dusk when the strong smell of lion wafted in on the almost dead still night air. They were right there, somewhere... It was still light enough to see most things, but nothing moved. Absolutely nothing...even the bats seemed to be giving the area a wide birth. To compound matters there were no night sounds either. The Crickets, Cicadas and nightjars had suddenly stopped calling. The king was around and all the creatures of the bush respectfully shut up and sat tight.


As it grew darker I became acutely aware of the need for a really good torch. It was the night of the dead moon, and although the sky was clear the star light simply served to make the bushes cast even darker shadows in the gloom. We had hung a light with a red gell over it from a spindly tree next to the bait. It was operated through a rheostat and the idea was that I would gradually turn it up until Schalk could see to shoot. Both of us of course had torches but in the days before Mag-lights, the little square two cell job that came off the front of my bicycle was about as good as they came unless you rigged a tractor lamp to a car battery or some such plan. Given that the bicycle torch threw a good beam for all of 3 metres, and Schalks was no better, and that we had a motorcycle battery in the blind to work the light over the bait it wouldn’t have been too difficult to rig up a decent shooting lamp. For that matter I could have brought along a couple of the carbide lamps that were once used down the old mine on our place and my father used when fishing. In fact, sitting in the dark with the heavy odour of lion smothering us like a wet blanket, any sort of decent light would have been worth swapping one of the rifles for.

Schalk nudged me and I gradually turned the red light above the bait up to a very dull glimmer. Schalk looked through the ‘scope on his rifle but there was nothing to be seen. A small breath of air made the leaves move, barely. If we were not so tense we probably wouldn’t have noticed it at all. Now though it seemed that the whole bush was alive. Schalk nudged me again and I turned the lamp up to full brightness. All this achieved though was to make black shadows even darker and the eerie red light seemed to heighten any movement by a leaf or blade of grass. Suddenly there was movement near the bait and a huge, absolutely monstrous lion pulled himself up into plain view, materialising out of grass not even 6" high. Both of us grabbed our rifles. At this point Mrs. Lion decided that if the family were to enjoy an uninterrupted nights feed she had better get rid of these two pesky pseudo-hunters watching her dinner. As our concentration was riveted on the lion ahead, she stuck her head through the canvas flap that served as a door at the back of the blind and roared. I don’t know about Schalk but I honestly don’t think more than my toes touched the ground anywhere between the blind and the landrover which was parked a mile or so away. The only thing that I do know for certain is that Schalk reached the vehicle sufficiently before me to smoke half a cigarette and do serious justice to the medicinal bottle of brandy in the tool box.

Daylight told the real story. There had been only three adults and four small cubs. The male with the pride was a youngster, with hardly any mane to speak of. He certainly was nothing like the 6'-high-at-the-shoulder giant that I had seen loom out over that carcase. The female with the cubs had been hiding in the bush to our left about 50 metres away, while paw prints and scuff marks showed how the second lioness had carefully stalked us. From the time we first smelled them to the time she told us to please bugger off was nearly two hours. How long had it taken her to silently slither into position and how had she co-ordinated the move with her mate so as to ensure maximum surprise value? None of them had taken any further interest in us and the two females had then stopped being stealthy and had casually walked up to the kill and begun feeding. They hadn’t even bothered to leave one of them as a sentry as they occasionally do when heavily persecuted. They obviously knew we wouldn’t be back that night!

I now had a completely new perspective on lion hunting, and my personal opinion of them differed considerably from my fathers. He had simply laughed at the story told in the sand the next morning and commented that “A little fear brings prudence, but you mustn’t let it dictate events” and that if I really wanted to be a lion hunter I had better learn about blinds and lion habits. Unfortunately our nocturnal lion hunting forays were soon at an end. “Dissidents” as the new guerrillas were known as in the next round of the civil war put an end to any movement outside the security fences around the houses at night and farmers went back to the old Rhodesian war day plan of putting strychnine in a carcass. This certainly killed a few lion, and had the added bonus of killing a good few dissidents as well who thought they had found a free meal. Unfortunately I didn’t learn a lot more about lion hunting although during the next five years of “spasmodic” war and a few buffalo culls I had learned never to panic, at anything, and to once action started to file fear out of the way in the furthest reaches of the mind.

awesome story. Thanks for sharing

Incredible.

Reminds me of old Indian stories of hunting tigers & leopards.

In the late 1950s my dad (a forest & wildlife officer of the district) was approached about a leopard that had killed a bullock in the local village. It was in an open field with no trees or cover to build a hide in. He got a big bamboo cage like basket that is used to keep young lambs & goats for the night. He placed it about 50 meters from the kill and cut a window to shoot through. He was sitting with is open sighted FM 10.75X68 & a Winchester 5 cell torch.

The leopard came after dark and started circling the bamboo basket. Dad could only occasionally see the tail and the shoulder hump. Suddenly it peeped though the cut window and growled!

Sadly i lost many mails and articles ,but i encourage anybody who has to publish any Ganyanas historie .

Juan,

Thanks for posting some of Don's stories. They are great.

Hi Ailsa just returned from the swamps .I strongly encourage everybody to post articles letters and so on of our late friend.
Cheers Juan

Outstanding! Thanks for posting Juan.

That made me laugh.
One evening I was alone sitting behind some low brush calling coyotes. The ground all around for 75 yds or more was deep sand and mostly bare.
All at once a warm wet nose stuck the back of my neck!! You bet, I can relate to the jump they did. My time turned out to be just a curious donkey. But still-----!!

George