So chaps, yer want an accountin'? Well, come in, have a seat and a glass. I say, this port of the Brigadier's is a spot of all right, what? Pvt Nancyball, go on over to HQ and see if you can badger another bottle out of his batman. By Jove, ever since the commander's "niece" showed up, the old boy's attention to detail is definitely slippin', don'tcherknow. O' course, we're all decidedly down the loo if he ever catches on, but for now let's make hay while the sun shines.
Jim and I flew t' Jo'berg, spent the night in Afton Guesthouse then took a charter flight t'the camp in Mozambique. Peet had laid on a tall blond pilot for us, he said, but the chittie brought her boyfriend along as well, so we b'haved ourselves admirably, even if I do say so myself. Things in Mozambique have improved much since my last report and the Customs johnny in Beira was polite, brisk, professional and quick, makin' no attempt to garner any bagsheesh from either of us. The next day, we climbed into the Unimog huntin' car. I tell you lads, that thing is so high that it's just like ridin' the howdah in a diesal elephant, snortin', growlin' and fartin' over the landscape. The rains had been especially heavy that year so we had to deal with grass over 8 feet high.
In spite of the bad visibility, on the first afternoon, Jim shot a fine warthog and I nailed a bushpig with the .318. Absolutely flattened, by Jove, truly smashin' performance.
The next day was the hardest huntin' day of the 45 years I've spent chasin' critters. I'd taken a Larium the evening before 'cause of the malarial area we were in and I swear that I'll never do that again. We rose at 3:00 a.m. to reach the edge of the swamp by dawn. Switchin' over from the Unimog to the amphibious Argo, we headed out into the wet. There're several rivers that cross the marsh grass that support great stands of papyrus. When yer drive through them, the Argo kicks up the decayin' plant matter under water. So add to my Larium-nausea the smell of rottin' papyrus, one of the truly foul reeks in all o'nature. It began t'get hot and the hotter it got, the sicker I got. Finally after hours of draggin' through that murk, we came within sight of the buffalo. This year it was Jim's turn t'shoot first and his .375 (God Save the Queen of Calibers!) barked from behind a stand of tall reeds and the best bull in the herd died without any difficulty. Marius, our PH, tried to put me on another one much like it but I was so shakey and pale, I could neither find the one he was talkin' about nor hold the front sight of my .404 on it anyway. The buffalo moved on. After a bit of a breeze came up, I began t'feel better so we continued our stalk, but this time the brutes were alert. When, after a 200 yard crawl, I finally sighted the oldest buff in Mozambique I took a good sight over the sticks and spitted the old boy down the brisket at around 110 yards. He took offense and with blood pourin' out his mouth and nose came after me. So I shot him again. This seemed to really rile him and at that time Marius decided that things had gone on bloody long enough, thank-yer, and spined the animal at 25 yards so's I could finish him off. Stimulatin' it was, stimulatin'.
We loaded the heads and as much meat as would fit into the Argo and headed back to camp, arrivin' around 9:00 p.m. I took a shower and went to bed, sleepin' an uncharacteristic 10 hours but woke feelin' much better. After a day's rest t'recover, we continued the hunt. Jim shot the oldest warthog Mozambique t'go with my ancient buff and, after kickin' m'self fer not bustin' a hoggie with tucks in full semi-circles, I finally used the .318 on my first bushbuck. All I could see was his head and neck so I shot a bit high and drilled the little bugger between the eyes at about 60 yards. Made a mess of the skull, I can tell yer, but the skullcap and cape were still sound so's he'll make a fine mount.
After flyin' back to Jo'burg for a night, it was on t'Natal for a ranch hunt. Havin' gotten kudu and eland in Zim in '97 a nyala was an absolute must. Lads, if it's nyala yer after, Nomad Safaris are the fellers t'go see. The first night out we saw
seven shootable bulls whilst just drivin' around explorin'. We also wanted zebra and though we hunted hard for a week, the demned clown horses stayed in the thornbush. Fer those who think that ranch huntin' is easy, yer just go out on Kerneel Van der Welt's 27,000 acres of thorn and give it a try. There're 6-700 zebra on that ranch and we managed t'see four and shoot none! Eventually, Jim collected blesbuck, mountain reedbuck, hartebeest and a fine impala. Unfortunately, I had somehow managed t'bugger the front blade of the Greener so I had t'continue my hunt with the .404. Chaps, the big girl did yeoman duty, flattenin' a blesbuck at about 100 yards dead before it hit the ground. I understand that it takes 15" to make the SCI book on that species. Mine is 17 1/4".
Finally, on the last day, we once again found nyala, lots of nyala. M'PH, Gary, allowed that the last one was old, big and had smashin' ivory on the tips so I collected him t'complete m'first set of the Spiral Horns. Most gratifyin', don'tcherknow.
