Crocodile hunter takes final plunge

The Sunday Mail-March 4, 2007
By Robert Mukondiwa

A rusty metal plate marks a pile of soil in the thickets as ants form a stream across the mound on the way to the other side with small chunks of what is no doubt food for the insects.

Nothing suggests what the mound of earth is and anyone could mistake it for any ordinary mound formed naturally in the last rainy season by forces of nature. Nearby is a baobab tree and it provides artificial cover in this land of sweltering heat in the heart of the Zambezi Valley. Under the cover of a shadow, the mound is shimmering, displaying the presence of intense ground heat on this African summer in the midst of the rich savannah.

This mound is actually a grave, covering one of the most recognised faces in Muzarabani Growth Point and the surrounding areas. This ground holds in its belly the corpse of Ruwizhu Rufira, who was born, lived and died poor — in the true sense of the word — but whose face graced the pages of magazines and newspapers across the Atlantic and his native African continent, for his mystic powers.

He is perhaps the only man in the Dande Valley to make it into the pages of the New York Times.

Ruwizhu was a famous crocodile hunter who had no qualms about entering any river or pool infested with crocodiles and other beasts of the deep "without even a condom for protection" as the locals now joke when reminiscing about the life of the fallen crocodile hunter.

Ruwizhu Rufira, of Mozambican origin, died late last year and unlike the hype surrounding his exploits along the crocodile-infested Msengezi River, he went out with a whimper, not a bang.

Ruwizhu (whose name was thought to be a corruption of the name of Italian Luigi) was famous for plunging into the deep waters of Msengezi River, and despite his reed-like body, would drag the crocodiles up to the surface of the water with his bare hands.

Ironically, the name Luigi means "Famous Warrior" and Ruwizhu lived up to his name by proving to be a warrior in the mighty waters of the Msengezi River, taming the ferocious crocodiles with consummate ease.

He would also go fishing, if at all that is the correct word for it, and scooped out as many fish as he wished to sell on a particular day. That is because he used no fishing rod or nets apart from his bare hands.

"Ruwizhu would ‘fish’ with his own bare hands and then go to the growth point to sell his fish before stopping by the nearest beerhall for a sip or two of opaque beer," said a resident who preferred not to be identified for fear of upsetting the dead.

"Many people actually would say his fish did not taste like genuine fish, saying he used juju to tame the waters and hence ruining the taste. Many said anything caught using juju tastes rather flat and so it was with Ruwizhu’s fish."

These accusations of juju were rife even in Ruwizhu’s lifetime and he always dismissed them with a shrug of his powerful shoulders: "My heart is clean, so is my conscience. I just want to help with their problems. I just help people, that is all."

As a result of his feats, Ruwizhu made it onto the pages of The Herald, The Sunday Mail and even The New York Times in an article authored by Donald G. McNeil Jnr, as he followed the trail of elephants and crocodiles with Africa’s Crocodile Dundee as his sidekick.

Until the twilight of his years on earth, Ruwizhu had more or less become a one-man sub-aqua unit, retrieving goats and sheep caught by crocodiles even from within the darkest corners of the reptiles’ underwater caves.

Even when there was a spate of child mauling by crocodiles, Ruwizhu would assist in the search, coming up with the livers and other parts of missing children.

"Myth has it that Ruwizhu would actually turn into a crocodile when he plunged into crocodile-infested pools and that is why he fooled them and managed to pacify them, bringing them up to the river’s surface," said another villager.

Indeed, as a young man, with dusty calves and bright yellow slops, I witnessed Ruwizhu in action on the banks of the Msengezi River. He came up with the beast of the medieval ages, holding the crocodile in his arms as Romeo would Juliet. It was like his little love, like a cat. On another occasion, he helped game rangers pull out a gigantic hippopotamus, which had wreaked havoc in the nearby fields and posed a danger to the villagers.

The game rangers kept well out of reach of the danger. A sub-contracted Ruwizhu did not! He was in the thick of things.

The hippo was later slaughtered and as a 13-year-old, I got quite a lot of the meat, which I happily devoured alongside my little brother. Whether the taste had changed after having been killed by a bare-handed Ruwizhu I will never know.

Yet his last days on planet earth were nothing but a pale shadow of the "hero" that he was in his lifetime. He had lost his supernatural powers!

After what many called a bout of mental illness, the staunch Dynamos supporter retired from "fishing" and swimming with the crocodiles. He had started begging for beer, his greying skin knew not a drop of water and he had started to scavenge for food from the dustbins of the poor — hardly getting anything filling — obviously!

He had lost it all, except his undying love for Dynamos, as even on a bad day he would shout, "Dynamos, haina ngozi!", in his gravelly voice laced with an unmistakable Mozambican accent.

Nothing in the dying embers of his life suggested that Ruwizhu graced the prestigious New York Times pages.

On hearing of his death, Donald McNeil mourned his "sad" demise. All who knew this legend would no doubt mourn him too.

He made the Australian crocodile hunter, the late Steve Irwin, look like Mary Poppins.

They must be crouching under a tree somewhere together in the afterlife, exchanging notes on their activities on earth.

The Msengezi River still flows. And there are still ripples. Whether they are caused by the pebbles beneath the riverbeds is not clear. They could otherwise be caused by the crocodiles and hippos and other forms of aquatic life, sending ripples as they shiver in the water wondering when Ruwizhu will come after them.

Unbeknown to them, Ruwizhu Rufira, their age-old nemesis, has like Elvis Presley, since left the building! Or in this case, the riverbank!

Some have suggested he should have been buried by the Msengezi River. But wherever he is, Muzarabani folk hope his soul is resting in eternal peace.

Now, that's quite the story.

Not to be uncharitable, but that's the best eulogy I've read for a Crocodile Hunter in the last 12 months.

Now that is one African story to remember...Amen.


Mike