Africa. It’s called the “dark continent.” “Dark” because the map was dark (unexplored) during the onset of the British exploration era when Africa was still very much “new” and its deep recesses unknown to any but the native peoples.
More than a century later and dark places still remain, though cartographers and scientists dare not deign to admit it.
So it is with Thaba Mohathla (Mount Mohathla) on the great escarpment of the Orange River —a rugged, desolate area that those who brave its harsh climate in search of precious diamonds deem the dividing line between the vast gaping maw of the ever-thirsty Kalahari desert and the equally dry and treacherous high Karoo.
Only those who have been to Thaba Mohathla know where to find it and those who find it come back changed, if they come back at all.
It was here, amidst the sting of the thorny black bush and bite of the jagged lava rocks of the high plateau, that we found ourselves hunting dangerous game one bitterly cold afternoon in late September.
Buffalo, leopard, lion — for these heavyweights of Africa’s Big 5 of dangerous game we were well armed. Elephant rifles of every shape and caliber lie within arms reach as our Lorry groaned and bounced across the ragged landscape in search of prey.
But what we would find that day would test the mettle of our guns and our spirits.
For terror like we experienced that day is, praise the Almighty, a rarity in this modern world of fast cars, swimsuit models and push-button gratification.
No charging lion or pandemonium of pachyderm furor compares to the visage of the beast we faced that day and if I had known such terrors still lurked in those “dark” places I would have not handed over the sum of a year’s labor to pit myself against the brawniest brutes the land of milk and honey could provide.
This was not milk and honey. This was laudanum and psychosis and through it all, the women were screaming.
If Peter Capstick knew such demons as this existed when he penned “Death in the Long Grass” he kept that knowledge to himself. And perhaps, if he did know, he was wise to keep quiet for only those who have seen it can understand its full and mind-maddening effect.
Further still, should it come to pass that the hunting world learn that such hellish nightmares await them, the very foundations of the multi-billion-dollar safari industry may be shaken to dust as lily-white lawyers and pampered oil tycoons would surely flee Africa en masse for the safety of the cushioned divans upon which await their even plusher trophy mistresses.
The day had begun uneventful. We had seen plenty of worthy game, but our list was set and we were in search of more menacing marks than impala and kudu.
We were searching out death — “black death” as the brave men call Syncerus caffer — the great cape buffalo.
When wounded or tried buffalo present an almost unparalleled opponent on the field of battle. Hellbent on retribution when poked with a 300-grain projectile, Nyati (as he is known in some parts of Africa) becomes unreasonably durable and unquenchably vindictive to the point of lunacy.
It is this combination of durability and determination that makes buffalo hunting so addictive to the thrill seeker and the price of Mr. Mbogo so high.
Each year men venture into the bush veld in search of the thrill of pitting one’s will against a near unstoppable force and each year some don’t return.
But it was not black death that came knocking that frigid September day but it was death and the women were screaming.
All was going well until we suddenly found ourselves in a strange area the guides could not identify remember having ever seen.
Somehow, I fear, we had crossed the barrier from reality into madness, for suddenly we found ourselves surrounded by at least a dozen of the beasts.
We had stumbled into a denning area and as the young ran for safety the males postured and made false charges at us, aggression and anger apparent in the hiss and growl of their vehemenant chatter.
It was, however, a sow with cub that we had intruded most closely upon that found our sudden proximity so distressing and charged.
The hair down her back bristling like a row of razor-sharp swords, her teeth gnashed at us as she closed the gap between her young and our Land Rover with appalling speed.
What at first were soft oohs of delight at seeing such rare and mythical creatures turned to screeches of terror as the sow's barreling advance sent the women in the vehicle into a mania.
Grabbing our rifles, Jack, our professional guide, and my brother and I unloaded an opening salvo at the Elizabethan nightmare that charged us.
Several shots came close and served to either redirect the sow’s charge momentarily, but she continued her break-neck advance on us hellbent on murder.
Suddenly, the dreaded “click” of a hammer falling on an empty chamber rang out! First in my brother’s double rifle and then in Jack’s Mauser the dreaded sound was louder than the boom of our rifles and my heart began to sink faster than the Titanic and the ice that radiated through my veins no iceberg could match.
Then my own rifle “clicked” in my hands and my mouth went as dry as the Sahara as terror nearly caused me to black out. There was no time to reload. Death was a few short yards away and I could see no escape.
As my life began flashing before my eyes the women’s screams began to fade away as if I were falling into a long dark abyss. But suddenly a new sound shook me from my terror-induced reverie. It was Jack yelling, “Here!”
From a position slightly behind me and to my right he had thrown his sidearm forward and I caught it out of the air as it went past. From his position he could not get off another shot with the charging beast so close and as I caught the Glock 19 from the air I opened a flurry of shots determined to expend every last round in one last ditch effort before darkness overtook our souls.
The first shots hit short, throwing dirt, but a third struck directly in front of the beast, the dust of its impact temporarily blinding the animal. Its next bounding leap forward was studdered and it was all the time I needed to bring the sights into alignment and fire again.
“THUNK. THUNK. THUNK.” Even over the women’s screams the distinct sound of hot flesh being impacted by even hotter lead echoed back in my ears. The beast was slowing, turning, or perhaps dying.
“THUNK. THUNK.” Twice more the sound echoed back and then all went dead silent. The women weren’t screaming. I’m not sure anyone was even breathing, just frozen in a moment between pure terror and shocked relief.
The beast lie still just a few short feet from the truck. The entire savannah had gone the eerie kind of silence that sleeps in the center of a raging storm.
Seconds ticked by like eons. Time, space, consciousness blurred into a great nothingness. Existence ceased to exist.
Then the void shattered and Jack was yelling words of congratulations and thanks, slapping my back so hard you’d thought I’d choked swallowing a pineapple grenade and he was trying to dislodge it before the inevitable “pop.”
The women were sobbing with relief and my brother was retching up his breakfast over the side of the truck, his hands shaking like an alcoholic’s after a week’s dry spell.
My own hands began to tremble and I wondered at the warm sensation running down my leg.
How we found our way back to the lodge that day I can’t say and what happened the next few hours remains a blank place in my memory. I just remember at one point sitting around the fire at the lodge and Jack regailing the owner and other guests on our near death experience.
In the skinning shed the men were doing their damnedest to muster the nerve to skin the beast and I was sure I’d be hard-pressed to come up with the money for the full-body mount I’d decided I’d have done with the mangled mass of fangs and fur.
You’d think saving the life of guests and guide would earn a man a discount at least, but no. Come the last day of our safari the outfitter handed me my tab. There at the bottom in big letters:
“$100. One (1) Ground Squirrel!” Can you believe the audacity?
And if you believe that story I have some ocean-front property in Thaba Mohathla I’ll sell you… cheap!
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