You are right. It is mainly decorative, but it also shields the kitchen area from view. A large boma is around the sleeping area to keep out lions and tigers.

The alarm rang.



My first recognition of consciousness was a pronounced cotton-mouth, flavored with a hint of too-strong garlic bread that came with the day-old, take-out spagetti I'd picked at late last night. Spagetti and scotch. Great meal. Especially at midnight.



Rolling across the empty space where my wife of 20 years had slept until a week ago, I slammed the alarm quiet. Day eight of involuntary singleness had begun.



Rolling out of toussled sheets, I staggered into the bathroom to do my new newly learned "legally-separated" toilette. The advantage of not having to wait upon a woman was, however, paled by the of sensation of a general soreness of body, feeling like a fine layer of sand was under my eyelids, a nose full of dried snot and a head that needed a few less p.s.i., all coming from an extra drink or two or four and an extra ninety minutes of t.v., too obviously indulged in to avoid the sadly empty bed that awaited.



While I brushed away the dryness and stink of mouth with my right hand, I peed, aiming with my left, not even giving a damn if I was spraying the whole bathroom, or if the seat was up or not... an advantage of being alone. Into the shower, and with all the hot water I wanted. Advantage two.



After fifteen minutes of mindlessness in semi-scalding spray, I found my head now clear and my muscles pleasantly loose. Work. Thirty minutes to get dressed, get a coffee and sausage biscuit form Micky D's and an eight-mile drive, constantly dodging high school-bound teenagers recklessly zooming around in mama-and-daddy-bought SUV's that I couldn't afford, much less buy for the child I never had.



Work? Working for whom, I wondered? Why make the effort?... then I remembered. No work today.



A suit this morning instead of the usual chino's, button-down light-blue shirt, too cute, but wife-bought-Disney-character tie and rumpled blazer. No work because I had court at 9:30 a.m. That's what the papers said, so coldly served upon me in the parking lot of my office by a deputy sheriff, smiling the smile of a funeral director... A temporary hearing.. first time I'd see my wife since she walked out Sunday night after telling me that I was irrelevant in her life.



My wife, or estranged wife, or soon-to-be-ex-wife... what was the term?.. (and as hurt was rapidily becoming anger, "bitch" was closest to now correct). She hadn't even waited a day to get a lawyer and file. I'd had the papers for a week now. Avoidance being easier than reality, I didn't even call counsel until yesterday, but was assured (and my understanding confirmed)by the only divorce guy I could find on Sunday afternoon that nothing happend at these "temporary hearings" anyway. He'd see me in the hall right before calendar call. We'd discuss settlement later.



I pulled on my underwear, noticing my pajamas lying in a heap on the floor along with yesterday's and the day's before clothes. Who gave a shit?



I pulled a $110, lightly starched, long staple cotton, dress-shirt from the closet and slipped my arms in the sleeves, feeling the pleasing sensation of the cloth pulling apart where stuck together when ironed. I noticed my initials on the cuff and wondered what the "bitch" was going to do with tons of still-never-used-wedding-present fluffy towels with her monogram (my last initial) on them... my name that she'd had for twenty years and I was now irrelevant.



One button, then second from the bottom, third, fourth... Shit, shit, shit! The button right at my sternum had come apart in my hands. Damn laundry must press shirts with an Abrams tank. I took the shirt off and went to find a needle, thread and replacement button.



Sitting on the chair where my wife had "made her face" five thousand times, I started to sew. I couldn't find my reading glasses. Damn.. so, quite predictably I stuck myself.. cussed aloud... and, pretty darn violently, threw down the needle, shirt and button and stormed into the kitchen.



I grabbed a bottle of milk and drank straight from the neck, no glass needed if you're alone. "This sucks!", and "Who am I trying to impress?", I sputtered aloud through a milk-frosted mustache.



A new day dawned.



Back in the bedroom I stripped off the suit trousers and threw the damn things on the floor with the rest of the messy pile, got a pair of jeans from dresser, pulled on a "MAMA'S PRIDE FRIED CHICKEN... YOU'LL LOVE OUR BREASTS" tee-shirt, then socks and cowboy boots and with a smile on my face for the first time in a week went to the garage.



God made Road Kings and Fat Boys and Heritage Classics for guys who had wifes who needed to "find themselves". Well, with 90 horsepower between my thighs, I was going to do a little "searching" myself. First hauling ass with a roar to the courthouse to tell my wife "you move, you lose", then to the office where I was going to take the ten-year-saved for emergency, fifty-eight grand (tax-paid, no less) that I had stashed in the safe (and which my soon to be "ex" would never see), make a few phone calls to those who had pressing concerns (of course, a short time with my partner who had gone through this just last year.. he'd cover for me as I did for him) and then "kick the tire and light the fire"..



Southern thunder... bugs in my face.. leaning into the turns, a few beers at a roadside bar... a ride north to cool mountain nights and maybe a putt down south to Key West.. Of course, one of Mama's Pride girls to evaluate those famous breasts against my back when I braked hard.



So, I was irrelevant.. but a couple of weeks on my chromed-up Hog... Now, that roaring son-of-a-bitch... that powerful piece of American tradition... That big, ol' beautiful loud-assed bike.. Yep.. that humming mother is relevant!



And I rode and rode and rode that sucker until I got well.







Jean:



Challenge met? Nothing like hijacking your own thread. But I had a few minutes while waiting an hour for my wife to get out of the shower this morning.



Thank God for Harley-Davison.

Damm you -I have the Buffalo bug and you just threw a gallon of gas on my fire--good well written tale!!

Thanks for sharing judge....I pine as well. Everyday.

Enjoyed the account very much, thanks. Just one question, what does that wicker fence in the photo keep out/in? I'm guessing wind/breeze?

As a psychologist, I recommend you take me with you next time so that I might see this affliction and its cause first hand. Maybe I too could contract this disease.
Max

Thanks for a great tale. Someday I will be there again too. "D"

Lumbering along on the deeply rutted track, I dozed on and off with the ticking drone of the diesel singing a wonderfully familiar lullaby. It was the last day of safari, late in the afternoon and I was content with my bag to date, smiling in my sleep, I'm sure, and beginning to convert actions into fond memories.



"Buffalo! Buffalo!" came a cry from behind me. Instantly awake, but not quite sure where the heck I was, I grabbed the rail in front of me and stood up and was immediately whacked by a branch full of thorns hanging across the road. Damn! Where are they...?



I'd seen at least 500 buffalo in the last few weeks, and had taken at a pretty good one, but the single word, "Buffalo" was to me like screaming "Gold!" to Cortez. Where are they? Where are they?



The two trackers had already bailed out of the Land Rover before it slid to a stop. The Game Scout was handing me my rifle. My PH, Clarke, was no where to be seen. I was picking thorns out of my brow and I still didn't know anything but that somebody had starting shouting "Buffalo!" and it was time to get my big fat butt out of the vehicle and get busy.



I swung down from the truck and ran to catch up with the last guy disappearing in the high grass. What was happening? I stopped to gather my wits and was about run over by the PH who was just behind me. I'd forgotten that he was in the cab of the truck.. stupid me! When I turned and looked into his eyes, I saw a cold, black stare of absolute seriousness. "Twenty yards and we'll talk.", were his only words. I followed. Sheep to the slaughter. Meat to be butchered. Thus was I.



As soon as I got a few yards into the tall grass, I understood. The grass was only good spit's thick, having been burned almost up to the road. We crept to the edge of the burn where the tracking staff awaited, peering intently through the last clumps of the wiry stuff down a little hill and into a copse of trees.



Son-of-a biscuit-eater! Three old dagga boys were standing about 200 yards away, as still as stone, deep in the shadows and almost invisible. How the trackers had seen them, I'll never know. Though barely discernable, yet seemingly vulnerable, they were still out of range for a sure shot, even with my .404 Jeffery with a good scope attached. I tugged on the PH's shirt sleeve and motioned for us to retreat a bit into the tall grass.



"Thought you might want to take a deep breath," were Clarke's first words during our respite. I took the last gulp of air for a while and nodded affirmation. Then, "Are your ready?" he asked. "Down the ditch on the left?" was my response. "Wrong wind. Back to the road and down through those trees to the right, but it's getting dark, so lets hurry" was his answer.



We scrambled back to the track and trotted 75 yards back from whence we came and then slid on our rear ends down the slope to get to a line of trees which extended towards the dagga boys, still resting in the shadows. Bent over like refugees from a lumbago clinc, we keep the brush and trees betweeen us and the buffalo, trying to keep as quiet as possible, knowing full well that darkness was coming and the wind was fickle.



All of a sudden the PH stiffened like like a 8th grade school boy watching cheerleading practice. What the hell? All I could see was Clarke's sweaty back. The buffalo were still at least 100 yards away, or so I thought. Why the alarm? What was right-damn-there that had stopped us dead in our tracks?



I eased my head over the PH's shoulder and saw the mother of all buffalo. Damn.. there was a cow with about 40 " horns (or so it seemed at the time), staring us down from only 10 yards away. Where the heck did she come from? She didn't bob her head or turn to the side or lick her lips... Hell, she didn't even breathe. She just focused all her energy on deciding if she was going to waste her time in killing us triffles or just walk away. In the meantime, she was ruining my underwear.



Crouched in a very uncomfortable position, I immediately started to cramp up. Pain began in the big toe of my left foot and radiated to the top of my head. I began to involuntarily shake. And then the second 10 seconds began. My first thought was that I had spent money to get to this place where I was going to die. I could have just walked in front of a truck back at home.



The big-mama cow slowly turned and let us know what she thought about us by raising her tail and dumping a steaming load of green shit, then she slowly walked away toward our right... away from the dagga boys. Whew!



After a look between the two of us that confirmed our individual suspicion that we were crazy as hell, we eased to the edge of the trees to check on the whereabouts of the bulls. "Still there," were the words I heard, but all I could see was brush and the sweat that had coated my glasses. I wiped them off, cursing age and infirmity. Figher pilot eyes that had gone to seed.



We then half-crawled another 50 yards and slowly arose, sliding up on either side of a palm which was right at the edge of our cover.



Now I could see! Only 20 yards away was the closest buffalo, butt to me, head down, apparantly dead asleep. Two dark shadows were on either side, and I felt, if not knew, that I could see rib cages expanding and contracting in the murk.



I raised my rifle to see if I could see the sights (scope now removed) and was pleasantley surprised to find that I'd have no problem in putting a bullet where it mattered, that is, if I could see which buffalo to shoot, and where.



The bull nearest to us had a broken horn, it extending only a few inches from it's head. What did the others look like? Clarke whispered that the head tracker,who was still in the high grass up the hill, had indicated that one of the bulls was a whopper. Crap! Right next to a great buffalo and we couldn't see a damn thing but dusky shapes!



Great things come to those with good sense. (This wasn't my idea, but I had already tipped the guy for my first buffalo! A good move, my friend!) Figuring out our problem, the reciepient of my largess simply stood up and walked a few feet out of the grass toward the bulls. I grabbed the tree with my left hand and cradled the rifle between my thumb and first finger, intent on the sights. Something was going to happen... and it needed to happen in the next few minutes, because nobody needs to fool with buffalo, particularly if wounded, in the twilight, and twilight was coming quickly.



One buffalo stepped forward towards the oncoming threat. The wise, old, broken-horned bull slipped like blown smoke into a patch of grass, never to be seen again. The third bull took three steps away from us and committed suicide by looking over his shoulder back at the approaching tracker. Every bit of my soul concentrated on the buffalo. I heard no noise even though I'm sure sounds were all around me. My heart didn't beat. It just swelled to bursting. I didn't even breathe. Just a flush of white heat to my intermost being encompassed me.



Deep dropping, 42" horns framed a mean-ass face which I could now well see and which was plainly exibiting a thoroughly pissed off disposition at the intrusion. Obviously he was deciding whether to fight or flee. I solved that problem with a 400 grain X-Bullet slightly behind his ear. The dagga boy hit the ground with a thump that registered like a 5.0 quake in San Fransisco. I worked the bolt and fired again, albeit into what I could then only see as a dark mass. I immediately sat my shaking rear end on a fallen tree and breathed for the first time in 10 minutes.



Another time of white hot quiet had come and gone.



On the way back to camp, now completely in the dark, I took a puff of my cigar and contemplated the dull glow of flame circling the ash. I only had one thought. How could I exist having to wait another year to do this again? Damned if I knew, but I'd not sleep a night in the interum without seeing that cow, up close and personal, or the look on the dagga boy as he turned to contemplate an intruder... or the limb that knocked me silly, or the wine at dinner that night, or the Southern Cross..



Oh, how I pine for Africa.

SWEET JESUS!!!!!!!!

I am quite sure of one great truth...I am not alone in my obsession.

JudgeG, I very much appreciate your efforts to convey the deepest memories of your soul. No greater gift can we give to others, but when we share the sincere desires of our hearts...

A sincere thanks!

JudgeG:

If I did not already have the "Buffalo Bug"... I surely would after reading your post. Thanks for sharing your experience!

Unfortuately, as you say I am "ruint"! It is hard to imagine anything in the hunting world that compares to chasing Cape Buffalo!

I just got back and already thinking about my next trip...You just added more "fuel to the fire"!

While in Tanzania I meet a fellow, who has been hunting Africa chasing Buffalo, etc...He told me he was thinking of "doubling up"...going twice a year...may be a good strategy...a possible cure..at least may be a temporary cure!!!

JJS

JudgeG,
Thanks for sharing your hunt. If you will write a book I will buy it!


cordell

Right good story, Judge. I know some folks who should read it that claim they have no desire to hunt Africa.