We had done what good friends do in November, in Zambia. Bought a buffalo license and packed a cruiser and a trailer full of beer and gone hunting. A boat was to be picked up en route along with some Whisky and the lads headed for the bush. At the beginning we chatted about women and their illogical way of thinking but for the most the serious topic of hunting dictated our journey.

The beach I speak of here is little more than a sandbank and it was the river’s cool invitation and one lone Acacia Albida drooping its shadow on a vast expanse of creamy white sand that had dictated the position of our camp. We named it Camp Chimbwe after the hoards of hyena that revelled in the cool moonlit sands of the Zambezi. They came off the riverbank in their dozens punctuating the gloom with their mournful songs. This was true music; our music and its sounds decorated the camp at night. Now and again an angry baboon would bark his disapproval at a leopard or other grim creature that paced the darker shadows of the riverbank.

Those who hunt and for those who have hunted the floodplains of the Lower Zambezi late in the year will know of the word hot. It is a word that is often misused by others. The hunting was not to be enjoyed and the game had vanished into the cooler heights of the steep craggy escarpments. We had been well outsmarted and decided the buffalo had deserved their freedom, for the time being. Having now swapped the tools of our trade, our guns for rods we headed for the river. Even here the fish felt the heat and refused to participate in our sport.

I think it was on the second to last day of our safari. A luckless impala was being cleaned for the pot and it was Tembo our other friend had first given us the idea. As he prepared the carcass he jokingly put aside scraps of sinew for ‘his dog Mr Chimbwe’ and we had noticed he had also put aside the head for ‘himself Mr Tembo’ of which, and much to his disgust, we borrowed back. Attaching it to a stout fishing pole, the hyena bait was rigged some fifty paces from our sleeping quarters and heavy rod butt buried into the soft sand between the bedrolls. That evening we had invited both Johnny Walker and Captain Morgan to our party who like all good spirits merrily revelled with us into the early hours of the morning.

The reel screamed in my ear, as I was jolted from my slumber. My thoughts still blurred I imagined a monstrous Tiger (fish) leaping from the depths of my dream and it took me a few moments to shake out the cobwebs and react to what we had done. Richard’s reaction however was to break open the bolt of his gun as his eyes sought the demons that had violently assaulted his ears. ‘We got a bite’ I had to explain as he rid his head of man-eaters. My thumb smoked as I fumbled to adjust the drag and the rod began to respond as it took up the strain The rod tip frantically started to jerk as our great ‘fish’ tossed it’s head, and naked we ran and I cannot really remember why? Maybe it was to retrieve the lost line or maybe it was the thrill of the chase but we ran with great spirit along the white bright sands of Rufunsa. Now and again the line went slack as the bait was dropped and our adversary seemed somewhat perplexed at the strength of the decapitated Impala. Jerking the bait across the rippled surface of the sand bought an instant flurry of activity and the rod buckled again. Head to head we fought the reel protesting loudly at the strain. Richard cursed as he solidly fed a cartridge into the rifle’s chamber Surely he is not going to shoot it? I was thinking just as, from behind, another Hyena charged into us. Moments before impact the beast put on his brakes and started to back peddle. Just like the cartoons, and you should have seen the expression on its face. Recoiling the Chimbwe ran as you have never a Hyena run, howling with disgust back into the shadows of the riverbank. Also giggling my gun bearer ejected the cartridge as we started our second run.

Gaining more line we hung on as my spotted tiger was frantically trying to shake off the invisible resistance. But our dog was getting tired of this sport and one long powerful run stretched our tackle to the limit and the line gave up the ghost and the ghost melted into the darkness.

On our way back to camp we laughed along with the other Hyenas reliving every second of our scrap, bout-by-bout, two good friends each expressive of their valour in battle. There was quite in the camp on our return, that is apart from Tembo who was mumbling something about white men.

Good tale Andrew. Glad to hear chimbwe didn't get hooked on the bait. I can see you guys laughing loudly, like you should have been. No whispering.

Great story, sounds like fun!

As Pierre von Tonder would say....head home to the wives or girlfriends for some "Schtukeda Schtuck" !!!!!