Enclosed is an account of a relationship between young and old hunters. Professional hunters in Zimbabwe are some of the most experienced in Africa and this is mainly due to the gruelling and stringent conditions of their apprenticeship. I was relatively inexperienced here and for the most had hunted the open parklands of the Kafue where thicket could be defined as more than two trees standing relatively close together. On the other hand my old Zimbabwe friend had buckets of experience and mostly in the thick stuff.

In Zambia the buffalo in local dialect is referred to as either Nyati or Mbo, the latter being my preference for it is one of the vocal sounds this animal uses to communicate with others of its kind. It is a deep almost guttural bark when heard at close quarters.

Arnuad Devais was my client, a proper gentleman and one of the leaseholders of the Chiawa game management area, a hunting concession located in a communal belt of the Lower Zambezi Valley. For some years Chiawa had been closed to safari hunters the theory being that the hunting industry was responsible for the demise of wildlife and by removing this element the game populations would miraculously multiply. This theory has yet to be proved in Africa and in the interim the game, as always, had succumbed to the ravages of poaching and Chiawa was to prove no exception. It has been hammered as the locals so eloquently put it. Happily I can report that things are much much different today, however then my observations were that not much had survived the previous hammering and for Arnuad this was his third safari and he had yet to see a buffalo on his property.

For the past week he and I had been spending our daylight hours chasing the tails of one small nervous herd of buffalo in and out of the thickets that suffocate this valley floor. It had been a fruitless affair and this herd would sense our approaches, the distant breaking of brush would signify their departure. Even if we were to get close the kasakasaka (thorn and thorn) was so tight in places that I very much doubted that I would be able to judge the gender of the beast let alone the quality of trophy, and trying to shoot through this stuff was to tempt fate.

The other member of our team was Nevin, an old hunter from Zimbabwe whose job then was to manage the estate. Nevin is a very agreeable character, and one of the old school types who gained their experience from culling elephant and other problem animals. Such skills are sadly lacking these days and many contemporary professional hunters are forced to learn from their own trials and errors. Therefore it was comforting for me to have him along and after all it was Nevin who opted that we should have a look at another area he referred to as the Bad Lands. I was intrigued, however my client was unenthusiastic for he had been there before and the memory was an uncomfortable one.

The Bad Lands consisted of a mass of reedy lagoons and other marshy depressions adjacent to the banks of the Zambezi, stretching in soggy bands one to two kilometres in width and maybe a dozen kilometres in length. An old channel choked with papyrus and bulrush. My first impressions were not all bad for it was an interesting place and a haven for waterfowl and other aquatic species. So what was the reason for it’s ill-fated name? Venture further in and there is a vine, a vile creeper that grows in great abundance and is hideous to man. Buffalo beans. And they carpeted large tracts of this swamp and for the most had blanketed every tree and shrub with their ugly poisonous tentacles. This was their house. In some places it formed barriers higher than a man’s head and the Bad Lands had earned its name as one of natures most foreboding fortresses. Nevin informed me that now and again Buffalo would risk the torment of the outlying villages to seek the lush grazing here. To date no hunter he knew of had taken buffalo in the Bad Lands and yet the trackers had insisted that there are many and some very fat ones.

The movements of Hippo had carved tunnels through this mess and it was through these dank holes that nature dared you to tread. However it was not all bad and now and again the bush opened into swampy glades and it was always my thought that this would be a likely spot to chance upon buffalo, knee deep in mud chewing on his cud, broadside at about forty paces. This was not to be for the Buffalo feed on the leaf of the buffalo bean and on this day they had sought them were they were most.

Looking across the sea of green Arnuad had not seen or more likely did not recognise the bird, a single Oxpecker briefly fluttered above the tangle of vines. ‘Buffalo’ Nevin surmised rather too cheerfully.

The trick with buffalo beans was not to dislodge the venomous hairs that coat the drooping pods and not to disturb anything that connects to them, as the caustic irritation that follows is extremely violent. This understood we stooped and weaved under and around the daunting canopy and delicately advanced onto our quarry. The buffalo on the other hand relished the bean and were now noisily stripping the vines from the undergrowth. The crisscross of tunnels we had chosen bought us into the very fringe of the feeding herd and if bloody Nevin was not there urging me on I would have abandoned this approach and backtracked my nervous client out of there. My situation at it’s best was becoming desperate and I was sweating buckets as the buffalo could only be identified by the movement of vegetation even though they were browsing but a few metres to the left and right of our precarious position. I was mentally unprepared when the undergrowth shook violently in front of us and the Mbo bellowed through the foliage, and right into my very sole. Pointing my rifle dangerously into the quivering leaves I remained like this until the offending beast had meandered off. I turned to Nevin hoping that he and his vast knowledge could come up with a plan that would exclude me from being injured or worse. But the veteran had been distracted and binoculars in hand he was trying to get a better look at some colourless little bird. His rifle lying on the ground. I surmised that after sixty something hatless years in the hot Zimbabwe sun his brain was most definitely cooked. Having identified his feathered friend he then had the audacity, in front of my quivering client, to order me to get on with it. I committed to memory the choice of vegetables I would roast with this old goat if we ever managed to get out of this tangle unscathed.

One thing I learned in hunting was to trust my common sense and it was this sense I now played and ignoring Nevin’s pleas to get stuck in we slowly followed the buffalo at a much more discreet distance hoping to get stuck in under more favourable conditions. And after some time the herd slowly browsed out of the thicket into a depression and into one of those glades I spoke of, and it was here that the Director shot his first ever Buffalo. He was absolutely delighted, and so was I for I noticed Nevin had developed a nasty rash.

I think Nevin Lindsmay? is now back in Zimbabwe and I hear his son is making quite a name for himself as a hunter there and obviously following in his old man’s footsteps.

Nevin Leesmay and his wife, Lindsey, are in Zim, managing the Ingwe Camp in the Sango Concession in the Save Valley Conservancy. After a stint in Zambia, following Nevin's departure from Buffalo Range and Parks before that, the Leesmays are back in Southeast Zim.

I had the wonderful experience of spending 17 days with the Leesmays during our hunt with Zambezi Hunters in 2009. Nevin's stories from his days with Parks and Buffalo Range were always entertaining and usually humorous. Nevin had also guided several older hunters from Alabama that I have known through the years. As a result, we instantly had something to talk about when we arrived in camp. Nev even took time out of his schedule to shoot me a zebra for bait. It proved to be one of the quarters from Nev's donkey that baited the cat I eventually shot.

Lindsey was a superb manager and kept the camp staff jumping. She saw to every detail and made sure that we were infinitely comfortable during our stay in Zim.

Their son, Brent, a contemporary of my PH Thierry Labat, was a PH with Chufuti, but I think I overheard that he has taken a job developing / managing a privately owned hunting property in Zim.

Here is a pic of the Leesmays and the Parkses.


And Besty and Lindsey feeding a semi-tame nyala

Thanks Will and that is the old goat I speak of. Do you have an email address? Lindsey was always looking after some sort of wild animal or other and I remember she was a great cook.

Andrew

Another delectable anecdote thrown in for our gleeful consumption.Thank you very much.

Best-
Locksley,R

Andrew,
You need to start work on your own manuscript would love to have a book authored by some one I know..