If you’ve ever been to Africa, I hope you took the time to get to know your trackers, skinners and camp help. They comprise a very interesting and colorful cast of characters that no safari would be the same without.
If you’ve never been, then please don’t deprive yourself of the opportunity to rub elbows with these salt-of-the-earth folks. You might find yourself beyond surprised and reevaluating everything you thought you knew about Africa.
Case in point, my tracker, Owen, who led me around on my 2019 safari with Ubathi Global Safaris. The man was a gem: funny, intelligent, philosophical and, best of all, better luck than a horseshoe wearing lucky rabbit’s foot covered in four-leafed clovers.
Owen spoke more than half a dozen languages, taught mathematics, science and biology in his native country (which for the life of me I can’t remember now), could quote passages from the Bible with nothing but the chapter and verse as reference, spoke deeply on matters of life and brought me more luck than a poor schlub like me deserved.
Owen, whose native country had some years ago become ruled by a maniacal dictator, had fled for his life when he refused to teach the “new” wave of educational decrees said dictator had declared would be the new modus operandi — including some extremely anti-white propaganda.
Owen fled to South Africa and worked odd jobs until he got on as a tracker, quickly working his way up the ranks. Like many of his cohorts who I’ve met on each of my safaris, he was shy, almost bashful at first and reticent to talk to the client unless engaged.
But once he knew you and was comfortable, he opened up and what poured forth was the soul of a man ripe with insight, wisdom and generosity.
Now, all of these things certainly stunned me. I wrongfully assumed the trackers and staff at the hunting lodge were uneducated folks doing the best menial labor they could secure. I’m ashamed to say my thoughts indicated a level of racism I wasn’t aware I possessed, and I had to radically adjust my way of thinking about this quiet, reserved staff shuffling about doing their jobs each day often unseen.
I say all of this because I love Africa so much and want everyone who goes to love it too and you can’t truly love it until you’ve got right down in the middle of it and taken the time to know the people. For, as I have said, they are a huge part of what makes going such an amazing experience.
I remember reading Robert Ruark’s “Horn of the Hunter” and he talked often about the guides, trackers, cooks and assorted other camp staff that made up the entourage that was a hunting camp 70 years ago. Those people were Africa. Africa was them and you had to get to know them to understand Africa and vice versa.
I remember Ruark writing about a native tracker his PH would recruit for lions. It seems the man was a whiz at lions. He knew them all by first name and could tell you a lone tree out on the savannah 20 miles hence will have a lion under it if you go there now, even though he himself hadn’t been there in several years.
Somehow it seems the man could “witch” up lions like wads of cash summon up politicians and no-account relatives looking for a handout.
I hope when you get to Africa, you get a tracker like that. They make it all the better, and, if you pay attention, you’ll learn more from one of them in a seven-day safari than a lifetime of reading books.
Owen was one of those characters Ruark would have loved to have met and written about.
The first three days of my safari had been pleasant, but unsuccessful on the sable hunting front. When the opportunity came I had to shoot the poor beast four times to get the job done. I was about ready to call it all quits at my poor display of shooting prowess.
That’s when Owen came to my rescue. The next morning as I sat writing in my journal awaiting all preparations to be made for the morning’s hunt, Owen came through to fill up the ice chest with cold drinks.
“Owen. What do you think we will do today,” I asked him.
Owen of course knew today our game of choice was a zebra, but he paused and stood there thinking deeply for a moment.
“Todayyy,” he said in that long, drawn-out way we would all come to know and love, “I think we will get zebra… one shot,” holding up one finger and punctuating his statement with a jab to the heavens.
“One shot,” I said surprised.
“One shot,” he said, nodding his head with a look of intense sincerity.
“That sounds good to me,” I said.
That morning, I took a large-bodied stallion at some 150 yards, one shot.
The first day or two out my brother, Josh, had taken a magnificent Nyala, his top bucket list animal after a buffalo. He fired five times, including one that left a beautiful .270-caliber bullet hole through one ear. He was as disgusted at his own shooting as I was mine.
The next day he took a fine waterbuck, again two or three shots were needed.
About the fifth day into our 10-day safari, Josh, dad and myself all joined up for the morning hunt to seek out some blue wildebeest.
“Owen,” I said, as he made his routine pass through the dining area for a cooler full of beer and water. “What do you think we will do today?”
It just so happens my brother was sitting with me talking that morning and he was first up on wildebeest.
“Todayyy, I think we will get wildebeest… one shot,” came the reply with the trademark pause of thought and sky-poking index finger.
“What’s this my,” brother asked, looking perplexed.
“Owen is a good luck charm,” I replied. “If he says we will get it one shot, we will get it… one shot.”
My brother eyed me skeptically. His tracker, Moses, an even shyer man than Owen, hadn’t spoken three words to him all week.
It was a long day of hunting. We hunted that morning, took lunch at camp, and went back out that evening, unable to purloin the wildebeest from the heavy thorn cover they were holed up in.
Just before dark Owen, Josh, Dad and both the PHs – Ronald and Tyrone – pushed into the herd in heavy cover and Josh planted a .270 into a massive bull. We worked by headlight to extract him from the thorn brush that evening, having lost him in the dark for quite some time before he was located.
After the massive bull was finally loaded in the truck I turned to Josh and said, “See. One shot.”
Poor Owen, who happened to be standing beside Josh at the time, suddenly received a backhanded swat on the arm.
“Why didn’t you tell me that sooner,” Josh demanded jokingly. “Do you know how much ammo I’ve wasted because of you?”
Everyone laughed uproariously, including Owen, and a daily ritual was born. The next morning Josh and dad joined me in waiting for Owen to make his rounds.
“Owen. Owen,” Josh demanded immediately upon seeing him. “What do you think we will do today?”
“Todayyy, I think we will get buffalo… one shot.” A statement I was relieved to hear as I was the one hunting buffalo that morning.
Of more than half a dozen game taken the remainder of the trip, all were taken one shot, and, of course, each was prognosticated by Owen before we left camp.
Levi Hill is an award-winning journalist, outdoorsman and gunsmith from Jal, N.M. He began shooting at the age of two and writing for press while in high school. He can be reached at hillmanoutdoors@gmail.com.
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