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- Herausgeber: Jonathan Ball
- Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
The thrilling story of a pioneering conservationist working with dogs to protect wildlife from poachers. Conraad de Rosner is one of the first game rangers to focus on working with specially trained dogs to protect wildlife from poachers – both 'bushmeat' poachers, who use cruel snares to trap animals, and criminal syndicates killing for rhinoceros horn and capturing critically endangered pangolins, the most trafficked animal in the world. Con's life – constantly at risk from poachers, wildlife and even his own fellow rangers – has been saved on numerous occasions by his devoted canine companions. His first dog, Zingela, a Weimaraner, saved Con from near certain death at the hands of two fellow rangers; on another occasion, Zingela alerted Con to a concealed wounded buffalo, one of Africa's most dangerous animals, about to charge. When Zingela was tragically killed, hit by a car while Con was away, the only meagre consolation was that Con had kept Landa, one of the nine puppies sired by Zingela. Landa followed in his father's footsteps as the leader of the canine anti-poaching team that is still operating today. Con's story is an epic of modern-day African wildlife conservation, filled with courage, adventure and romance.
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THE DOGS TRAINED TO PROTECT WILDLIFE
CONRAAD DE ROSNER
with Graham Spence and Elaine Bell
Jonathan Ball PublishersJohannesburg & Cape Town
In memory of Zingela
CONTENTS
FOREWORD
My eldest son was born on a cold and windy day in Port Elizabeth (now Gqeberha) on South Africa’s south-east coast on 15 May 1973, three weeks premature and given no more than a twenty-four-hour chance of survival. Lying froglike in the incubator, tubes and needles hiding his face, his little chest laboured for every breath. I looked at him struggling for life and I heard myself whispering fiercely, ‘Fight, my son.’
Fight he did and he still is – fifty years later.
He and his teams of rangers and dogs are in a life and death struggle against illegal poaching in a fight for the survival of all wildlife. They guard rhino, elephant, lions and all manner of other creatures from the unrelenting, unceasing, increasing war taking place in the bush, on the plains, along streams and rivers, and in the mountains and hills of Africa. Many dedicated rangers, men and women, battle this scourge, with frankly no end in sight.
The illegal killing of and trade in Africa’s wildlife is all to appease the markets of the Far East, with their erroneous belief in the curative powers of animal parts and organs. The greed to possess ivory, rhino horn, lion’s teeth, bones, claws and all manner of other gruesome body parts serves to line the pockets of the masterminds behind the smuggling cartels, as well as those of the highly placed people who turn a blind eye in return for thirty pieces of silver. What price betrayal?
This is the story of my son’s personal odyssey. His rite of passage to reach the present day, where his contribution to conservation has made a small difference.
His journals, notes and reports over the past years piece together the story of his struggle to pay his dues to Africa, his land of birth. To protect Africa from itself and from each and every person who feels by right they should have a slice of the cake merely by virtue of the fact that they were born on the soil of this continent, without adding virtue or value to their claims.
The reports documenting all the poaching incidents, plus all the animals that have been slaughtered and died makes one wonder how there is any wildlife left in Africa at all.
I am grateful and give thanks that Conraad has survived all the danger he has encountered from both man and beast over the past years. These years demonstrate not only his dedication to nature and the wild, but also his years of discovery and study of San rock art he documented for the public domain for the first time.
These years also include the time spent pioneering the use of dogs for anti-poaching in the bush and the story of Zingela, who was born to be my son’s wonderful and faithful friend, guardian and protector during his years in the bush.
If Conraad’s story can serve as an inspiration to just one person who is passionate about stopping the slaughter and decimation of fauna and flora, then this book has served its purpose, the message it contains understood.
About six months before my ninety-seven-year-old mother passed away on 23 July 2017, I had a vivid dream in which a disembodied voice urged me to write a book on Conraad. Of course, not being a writer, I was totally at sea about how and where to begin. I awoke the following morning and told my mother about the dream.
‘Well, what are you waiting for? Get on with it,’ she said. ‘My vibes tell me this is what has to be done.’
Her vibes were a matter for gentle teasing from the family. They were either ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ or ‘Do’ or ‘Don’t’ and she was seldom wrong in her summation of either people or events.
With the Abba song ‘I have a dream’ swishing around in my head all day and my mother’s urging, I began to give credence to her vibes.
First and foremost, this is Conraad’s book that he has related for posterity. May I therefore say in all humbleness: I have a son of Africa. He lives on a small farm nestled below the castellated top of Mariepskop Mountain and Maholoholo peak in Limpopo Province. The farm lies in the valley formed by the Blyde and Olifants rivers, where the Drakensberg Mountains begin their journey down to KwaZulu-Natal, and there form a great backdrop fortress with the mighty Maloti Mountains of Lesotho.
This is the story of the small footprint he has left on the soil of Africa. One day the winds of time may wipe this footprint away, but I dare say his spirit will hover over the bushveld forever.
His mother,
Elaine Bell
1
THE ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT
A fundamental lesson of tracking in thick bush is that dongas, dry riverbeds, are potential death traps.
To emerge headlong from a steep ravine onto higher ground is the ultimate ‘sitting duck’ situation. Any predator such as a hunting lioness, irate buffalo – or more likely these days, an AK-47-toting poacher – will have an immediate jump on you.
This was drummed into me from a young age by my grandfather, Coenraad Havemann, who I called Oupa, as well as my uncle and mentor, Louis John Havemann. They both continually stressed that I must always first scan the bush from below the river bank to check every angle before exposing myself. They were both wise outdoorsman and I listened to whatever they said.
That’s why I am alive today.
I was patrolling a river in South Africa’s Mpumalanga Province on the northern side of Mthethomusha Game Reserve that borders the Kruger National Park with my dog Zingela when Oupa’s advice was put to the ultimate test. Zingela was a Weimaraner; in my opinion the most loyal, intelligent and beautiful gun dog in the world. I used him extensively in the bush to track poachers or injured animals. He was my first line of defence, and I could tell just by a brief growl or whine exactly what species of animal was nearby. Humans are infinitely more deadly and his body language was enough to alert me if there were any around.
Zingela was also my best friend.
This was a routine patrol. I had no reason to be on full alert, although that state is second nature after decades in the bush. I parked the Land Cruiser above the river bank and Zingela and I clambered down the steep slope to the rock pools below. The water was crystal clear and bubbled with life. Zingela jumped in to cool off and with ears flopped forward and nose to the water, he started looking for fish. This was one of his favourite pastimes and I let him swim in the stream, as there were no crocodiles that high up in the mountain valley. As Zingela fished, I started making my way downstream, marvelling at the swarms of iridescent dragonflies hovering and darting this way and that as I carefully scrutinised the game trails leading down to the pools for any signs of poachers’ snares. There were none. It was just another day in paradise.
Or so I thought.
Suddenly Zingela leapt out of the pool and ran up the bank, barking with an alarmed aggression I had not heard before. He had obviously scented something, as the hair on his neck and back was raised. I knew that whatever – or whoever – was above us was dangerous. My survival instinct kicked in, adrenalin flooding my system. I needed to think fast, and act immediately. There was no time to make a mistake.
Remembering Oupa’s words, I did not follow Zingela up the slope but sprinted behind a large granite boulder, about forty yards long and twenty high. Drawing my firearm, a .45 ACP pistol, I silently crept around the side of the massive rock. Zingela instinctively sensed what I was doing and did not follow. Instead, he held his position facing up the bank, his agitated rapid-fire barking acting as a decoy.
I peered cautiously around the boulder and gasped silently at what I saw. Two men armed with R1s, automatic rifles previously used by the South African military, were pointing their weapons down the bank.
I recognised them instantly. To my utter astonishment, they were game rangers who worked for the provincial parks board. Not only that, but both had also been named in a damning report I had earlier submitted to the authorities concerning the poaching epidemic raging across the Mthethomusha reserve. They were key suspects with alleged links to gangs targeting highly endangered animals, while brazenly using their parks-issued rifles to gun down buffalo for the greedy bushmeat industry. The same rifles pointed at where they thought I would emerge.
At first it struck me as strange that they had not fired at Zingela, who was still barking frantically. Then I understood.
‘My God!’ I whispered. ‘They’re after me.’
There was no question about it. They were waiting for me to emerge from behind my dog. If I had charged headlong up the slope – which most people without the benefit of Oupa’s sage advice would’ve done – I would have been shot stone dead.
Silently I approached from behind the boulder, placing one foot carefully in front of the other. A snapping twig or crunch of sand would give me away faster than a striking mamba. When I was about twenty yards from the men, I ducked behind a large tree for cover.
‘Wenzani?’ I shouted in Zulu. What are you doing?
They spun around. The first thing they noticed was my hands locked around the large calibre .45 swivelling from one man’s torso to the next – the most effective area to shoot in the event of an attack. Like most people who have spent their lives deep in the bush, I am a skilled shot. I could take them both out before they could swing their rifles my way. And they knew it.
‘Drop your weapons. Now!’
They did so with alacrity.
‘Move back!’
By now both men had turned fifty shades of pale and hastily backed away from their dropped R1s.
‘Why are your rifles cocked and aimed at my dog?’ I shouted. ‘Was it because you knew I would come up the bank after him? And then you would dubula (shoot) me?’
They denied this vehemently, but I could clearly see by their body language they had been caught out. Not knowing how to react, they stuttered and stammered that they thought Zingela was a hunting dog with a poacher coming up behind him.
‘Oh really? You thought it was a poacher’s dog? But you see me with this dog every day.’
I then pointed to the rusty banged-up Land Cruiser behind us. ‘There is my mova. You see me driving it every day. You knew it was me down by the river. How stupid do you think I am?’
I walked towards the dropped weapons, quickly stripped the rifles and threw the action pieces as far as I could into the bush.
Still pointing my pistol, I slowly walked up to the rangers, who were beside themselves with fright. Zingela ran up the bank, his distinctive stiff-legged gait indicating he was aware of extreme danger. He crouched at my side, baring his fangs, growling viciously. One word from me and he would have attacked.
‘You bastards meant to kill me,’ I said, my voice shaking with shock and anger. ‘You were going to shoot me.’
They shook their heads vigorously. They repeated that they thought they were up against a poaching gang with dogs. That was rich; every ranger in the reserve knew Zingela belonged to me. A muscular Weimaraner with distinctive blue-grey fur, he looked nothing like the slim lurcher-type mutt that poachers use.
This was far from just being an honest mistake. These two guys planned to pump me full of lead and later claim that poachers were responsible, or else leave my body rotting somewhere deep in the bush for hyenas and vultures. Any doubts were dispelled by the fact that they were pointing their weapons at the exact spot where I would have emerged from the river bank. Not to mention that I had recently exposed their alleged poaching activities just a few weeks before.
It was a blatant assassination attempt. I continued swinging the pistol from one man to the other. ‘The next time you try me, I will act in self-defence and kill you both.’
I then backed towards the vehicle, started the motor and drove off, leaving them to find the bits and pieces of their rifles’ firing mechanisms scattered in the veld.
Two things were now certain. One was that Zingela’s incredible alertness and my mentors’ wise words of advice had saved my life. The other was that the enemy was now truly entrenched within. Some of my fellow conservationists and game rangers wanted me out of their way. Permanently.
I took a few minutes to absorb this. There was no more bitter pill to swallow. I have put everything on the line to protect Africa’s unique heritage – it’s magnificent wildlife, unsurpassed anywhere else on this planet. It’s been my lifelong quest.
But how could I continue to do so against such overwhelming odds, when even some of the people I worked with were out to get me? Who could I now trust?
I silently thanked Zingela, lying on the passenger seat with his head on my lap, for saving me. For him, it was no big deal. It was what he did. I knew with granite certainty that I could rely on him in any situation. His loyalty was set in stone. He would lay down his life for me in the blink of an eye. He was incorruptible. A true force of nature.
The battle for Africa’s last wild places will only be won by those with total, unwavering commitment to the natural order of the planet. That we all knew. But where were they? I mean … a few moments ago I had almost been taken out by two supposed ‘good guys’.
In the darkness of despair, I suddenly realised that right next to me was an answer. Zingela. At that moment I grasped that perhaps the ultimate combatants in this conflict for the soul of the wilderness were dogs; creatures that have no conception whatsoever of human vices such as corruption, insatiable greed or utter betrayal. Their loyalty was absolute, their courage immeasurable. Their allegiance to us was not negotiable.
I stroked Zingela’s head. It was a small spark of hope. For me, that day was an epiphany. I knew what I had to do.
How I got there was a long journey …
2
WHERE IT ALL BEGAN
My mother Elaine says I was an adventurous child. In fact, she claims I drove her to exhaustion, never still for a moment, incessantly questioning everything.
She says she sometimes wished I was more like my older sister, Kendyl, wise beyond her years, or my younger brother, Jayson, quiet and introspective.
Be that as it may. What I do know is that one of my earliest recollections of school was terrifying classmates by bringing various bugs, beetles, spiders, frogs and even snakes into the classroom, usually resulting in a mass scattering of kids and teachers alike.
As I say, I knew from the very beginning that my life was destined to be lived in the wilderness. So much so that when I was six my mother says I told her I no longer needed to go to school and should instead be left to wander in the hills. She had no idea how prophetic those words would be.
But perhaps I had no option. I come from an unusual gene pool, from both branches of the family tree.
Let’s start with the paternal bloodline. The name De Rosner sounds aristocratic, and to my surprise, it is. My grandfather Geza de Rosner (hence my second name) was a Hungarian Baron, a hereditary title that dates to the Crusader Wars of Richard the Lionheart. The baronetcy was awarded to the family for bravery on the battlefield.
Baron Geza de Rosner was by all accounts a man of many talents – a writer, adventurer, amateur archaeologist, Egyptologist and film-maker – who travelled the world lecturing on ancient civilisations such as the Incas and Aztecs. He married Mignon Beaumont, scion of a prominent British family who were among the earliest of the colonialist pioneers to settle in present-day KwaZulu-Natal. Mignon’s grandfather, William Henry Beaumont, was born in India, arriving in Durban in 1873 and appointed Judge of the Supreme Court of Port Natal in 1902. William’s son, Baron William Richard Beaumont, married into the Platt family, also early settlers from Britain, who were on the founding board of the multinational sugar corporation, Tongaat Hulett.
Geza and Mignon had two children, Marcia and my father, Zoltan, who married my mother, Elaine Havemann. My parents divorced when I was five and we lived mainly with my mother, although my dad has been a guiding influence in my life and was a wonderful father. He was calm and wise, with a dry wit that made his remarks and numerous wry puns even funnier. To my sorrow, he passed away in early January 2022.
On my mother’s equally adventurous side of the family, Heinrich Havemann left Germany as a young man, arriving in Port Natal, where Durban stands today, in 1839. He married Hester Maré, who is the ancestral mother of our branch of Havemanns. Hester’s parents joined the Great Trek, the exodus of Dutch-speaking settlers, into the African hinterland to escape British rule in the Cape Colony when she was thirteen years old, taking two years to reach Natal. Family lore has it that it was the teenage Hester who led the trek oxen of the first wagon down the precipitous cliffs of the Drakensberg Mountains at Oliviershoek Pass into their new homeland.
Once over the mountains, they outspanned near the Bloukrans and Bushman’s rivers. The voortrekker laagers, fortified camps encircled by wagons, were spaced far apart to ensure enough grazing for their cattle herds, so the Maré family was about four miles from the Bloukrans settlement.
On 16 February 1838, Hester’s mother was urgently called to assist in delivering the baby of a trekker woman at the Bloukrans camp. The Marés packed their wagon but one of the team of twelve cattle they used to pull it, a white ox, was missing. They searched for it in vain and the eleven oxen were tied to their yokes for the night to enable the family to leave at sunrise.
The next morning, they woke to terrible news. Zulu warriors had raided the Bloukrans settlement and massacred everyone, including women, children and servants. The delay in searching for the white ox had saved the lives of Hester and her family. Also, to their astonishment, the white ox that went missing was now calmly lying next to the rest of the yoked animals.
The Maré family finally settled in a laager in an area that became the site of the present-day city of Pietermaritzburg. Heinrich and Hester were married along with two other couples in the first church erected in the settlement on 15 February 1841.
Then we have my grandfather Coenraad Oupa Havemann, who was a huge influence on my life. Oupa was a practical man of the soil, a Zululand pioneer in the 1940s overcoming scorching summers, droughts, floods, tsetse fly, rampant malaria and repeated crop failures to carve a living from the land on his farm Windy Ridge. He was also an old-school hunter and Windy Ridge in the Ntambanana district was one of the first privately owned farms to be rewilded – a novel concept in those days. Oupa ploughed up his cotton and pineapple fields and let nature takes its course as the land reverted to wild acacia grassland and thornveld.
When the bushveld came alive again, Oupa stocked Windy Ridge with zebra, wildebeest, impala, rhino and giraffe, and actively encouraged the return of nyala, kudu and bushbuck. He was a founder member of Natal Game Ranchers Association and was widely recognised for his ground-breaking conservation efforts. The 1950s was a pivotal era in Zululand conservation as frontline game rangers such as Dr Ian Player, Ken and John Tinley, Nick Steele, Jim Feeley, Graham Root and Mark Astrup were valiantly trying to save the area’s wildlife, particularly its white and black rhino, from extinction.
Oupa married into the Rudd clan, a family synonymous with the early days of the Kimberley diamond fields, and my grandmother had English, Scottish, Irish, French Huguenot and Boer blood.
So, there we have it. My DNA is a chaotic mishmash, ranging from Hungarian aristocracy to hardscrabble Boer rebels. Indeed, the family joke is that the De Rosner bluebloods arrived in style, sailing into Port Natal on a handsome ship, while my mother’s paternal forbears couldn’t afford the boat fare, so had to trek over the rugged Drakensberg mountains in rickety ox wagons.
My mother remarried in the 1980s and a few years later we moved to a game farm called Mauricedale outside the town of Malelane, the southern gateway to the world-renowned Kruger National Park, an iconic wildlife reserve roughly the size of Wales. During school holidays I, along with my brother, sister and stepsisters Teresa and Belinda Bell, would disappear into the bush, walking dogs, riding horses and exploring the untamed countryside. I learnt how to hunt responsibly, but mainly I honed my tracking skills and spent hundreds of hours just watching wild creatures in their natural habitat.
All five of us kids had a privileged childhood and went to private boarding schools. I first was sent to Somerset House near Cape Town and then to Woodridge College outside what was then Port Elizabeth (now Gqerberha) in the Eastern Cape Province. My last three years of schooling were spent at Weston Agricultural College in Mooi River, KwaZulu-Natal. I loved it there and my nickname was Bush Cat, as I was always running around, either illicitly fly-fishing for trout on a neighbouring farm, raiding beehives, or white-water rafting down the beautiful Mooi River.
I couldn’t wait to start a career as a game ranger. I not only cherished being in the bush more than anything else, for me it was a holy place.
The planet’s cathedral.
3
WINDY RIDGE GAME RESERVE
With my formal schooling at last done and dusted, I was ready at last for my real education – going into the wild.
It happened when my uncle Louis John Havemann offered me a game ranger apprenticeship on Windy Ridge, the Zululand reserve my grandfather rewilded. Even though I would be paid a meagre salary, it was exactly what I wanted. Oupa had now retired, handing over Windy Ridge to his only son, and to be offered a job there was a dream come true. As a boy, visiting Oupa’s game farm was the biggest treat imaginable and where my all-consuming love of nature and choice of career took root. As far as I was concerned, Windy Ridge was without question the greatest place on the planet.
I had recently turned nineteen and despite Louis John being my mother’s brother, I was not given any special treatment. On the contrary, he was a hard, demanding taskmaster and not the easiest person to work for. But I had huge respect for my uncle and his knowledge of the bush and I possibly deserved the frequent bollockings that came my way.
The experience was invaluable. In fact, I don’t think I could have had a better bush internship under a greater tutor even if I felt like clocking him at times, even though I knew he would probably hammer me in a physical confrontation. Thanks to him, I learnt how to become a skilled ranger, taking part in game captures, anti-poaching patrols, snare sweeps and fence inspections, and working with many different types of animals. I also had to become a Jack of all trades, as on Windy Ridge we did everything ourselves. Consequently, through sheer necessity I became a hands-on bricklayer, plumber, electrician and, most importantly, a bush mechanic to keep the fleet of often dilapidated vehicles and tractors chugging through some of the roughest terrain imaginable. On top of that, I had to polish up on my people skills, taking tourists and guests on game drives and handling school groups who came to the reserve for wilderness experiences.
In many instances, I was thrown in at the deep end, being pretty naïve after a privileged childhood. But that was good. With Louis John as a boss, people either sank or swam … there was no in-between. Wake-up calls were at 4 a.m. sharp in summer and 5 a.m. in winter and there were times when I was late and got fired minutes after getting out of bed, only to be rehired after breakfast. I constantly had to walk on eggshells, never knowing if I would incur Louis John’s wrath for some minor infraction, or whether I would still have a job when he calmed down. But his wildlife knowledge, learnt through tough experience, is right up there with the best. He’s a genuine bush maestro – and I am greatly honoured to have had one of the best teachers in the business. The hard lessons he taught have stood me in good stead throughout my life.
I got to know the rugged thornveld and the magnificent acacia grasslands of Windy Ridge like the back of my hand and became very fit from constantly being on the move in the heat and humidity of the unforgiving Zululand bush. I loved the sheer adventure of it all, as well having the complete freedom to roam and explore the outdoors. To keep me company, I got a puppy; no special breed but definitely with a sprinkling of genes from the indigenous, semi-domesticated but largely free-ranging Canis Africanis lurking in the background. I named him Bamba, which in Zulu means ‘to catch’ or ‘grab hold of’, and today I cannot imagine a life without a trusting dog as my companion.
My accommodation was in one of the rondavels, a round room attached to the main house, which I shared with Louis John’s son Brandon whenever he came home from boarding school. However, it soon became apparent that another ‘resident’ shared the premises with us, something far more sinister. I regularly heard ghostly footsteps at night and there was a creepy feeling of being watched by invisible eyes in the lounge.
I was not alone in sensing this spooky spectre. Hopeful rangers looking for work would arrive for a job interview and as we were far out in the sticks they usually stayed overnight in an empty room near the disused cattle dip behind the house. Almost without fail, they would emerge wide-eyed the next morning saying a ‘demon’ had grabbed them by the throat and attempted to throttle them.
It transpired that some years before, a ranger who worked at Windy Ridge had disappeared after payday one month and was never seen again. Human bones were later found by Brandon under a tarpaulin in a drainage line at the old dip and it is believed the ranger had been killed and his body dumped there. I became convinced that the strange noises and bumps in the night were caused by the restless spirit of the murdered man.
Despite the hazards, supernatural or otherwise, my most dangerous job had nothing to do with wild animals. The old borehole at the Inthibane camp, which we used to accommodate our wilderness education groups, was out of action so I regularly had to ferry in water. This entailed driving an ancient Bedford lorry down to the Enseleni River with two massive water tanks mounted on the back. Once the tanks were pumped full, I had to coax the groaning vintage rattletrap up the bank and often imagined myself being crushed if it toppled backwards into the river. The sloshing water tanks also made the archaic lorry top heavy and I was certain that the stressed brakes would one day spectacularly fail as it careered downhill, with potentially fatal results for the unfortunate driver. Me, in other words. That was the worst and most onerous task on my long list of duties – far more precarious than any charging rhino!
The field rangers at the time were Ovambo trackers from Namibia. Most had served with Koevoet – a crack paramilitary unit during the South African border war that ended in 1990 – and were seasoned bush fighters. I had a good relationship with these hard men, regularly going out on patrol with them and learning the art of tracking both humans and animals.
Louis John also had a lot of friends in the military special forces, and they often came to Windy Ridge to do clandestine training. I latched onto these men as well, joining in the undercover operations and running around in the bush wearing a sweaty camouflage ghillie suit during ‘pursue and catch’ practices. As they were a sniper unit, they also taught me elite marksmanship skills. I didn’t know it then, but both the Koevoet and special forces guys taught me a lot of crucial skills that would become extremely useful when the rhino horn poaching conflicts erupted with a vengeance at the turn of the twenty-first century.
Many hunters also visited Windy Ridge and I would go on hunts with Louis John before getting my professional licence through the well-respected Ian Goss Hunting Academy and leading safaris myself. These were particularly popular with hunters of Indian descent, who mainly came from the Durban area, and the buck curry they cooked was the best I have ever tasted.
While my bush education was on-going, I also became attuned to the mysteries and mythologies of this intensely spiritual continent – something I have always been interested in. For example, I noticed that the rangers meticulously avoided a sharp bend in the Enseleni River, which winds its way through Windy Ridge, taking the longer route on their patrols. It seemed illogical, so I asked them why.
The answer was unanimous. ‘Eish. A tokoloshe lives there,’ one replied. ‘It will attack anyone who goes there. Stay away.’
A tokoloshe is a small, hairy demon and has a terrifying influence in African folklore. Many people – even in the cities – sleep with their beds raised on bricks to ward off its evil power.
I asked more questions and reluctantly they took me to where the mythical creature lived. On the bend of the river, high up an undercut rock crag, is a gaping hole that disappears into the eroded cliff face. That, they said, was the evil creature’s lair. Although they called it a tokoloshe, they said that it was more like an mkovu – a wild humanlike dwarf creature. Something like the Yeti of the Himalayas, or Big Foot of the Rockies, but smaller.
Whatever it was, it was as spooky as all hell and I involuntarily shivered as the hairs on my arms stiffened. I agreed that this was a spine-chilling place and understood why the rangers zealously avoided it.
Indeed, there was never a dull moment. I remember one morning driving to fetch the reserve’s secretary, Maureen Tracy, when a man came running down the road with a large pack of Canis Africanis. These extremely hardy, lightly-built animals resemble a cross between a greyhound, a terrier and an Australian dingo, and are widely used by the locals to hunt bushmeat.
I slammed on brakes and shouted at him. ‘What the hell are you doing? Where are you going with those hunting dogs?’
Instead of stopping, the man charged towards me, brandishing a large panga (a type of machete). Alarmed and thinking the dogs were a poaching pack that would run amok on the reserve, I started to shoot at them. Highly agitated, the man screamed that they were not his dogs, but belonged to the people in the nearby village. Some of the dogs were now also getting aggressive and with snarling animals and a panga-wielding man coming at me, it took some deft footwork to force him into the back of the car. I was lucky not to be slashed or bitten.
I drove to the office and Louis John started questioning him. It was soon evident that the guy was mentally unstable so we called in the local headmen who confirmed it. Nonetheless, he would have to face retribution from residents for rounding up their dogs, taking them onto a game reserve and endangering their lives.
Not long afterwards, I had another hair-raising experience while building wooden chalets at the Inthibane educational camp, literally, in this case.
Our farm workers had been tasked with the manual work and I noticed we were often a staff member short. I suspected that this was because one of the workers was sneaking off to the river to do some illicit fishing, so I sent two rangers out to investigate. I told them not to detain the man, but to report who it was directly to me as he was a staff member, not some grubby poacher.
The next morning, while having breakfast, a sweating and alarmed ranger burst into the room.
‘Big trouble,’ he wheezed. ‘Makhathini has been shot.’
It transpired that the rangers had caught the worker, whose name was Makhathini, fishing and tried to arrest him – contrary to my instructions. Makhathini resisted and, in the ensuing melee, he was mortally wounded.
I raced down to the camp to find the now dead Makhathini, with his incensed colleagues accusing the rangers of being murderers and threatening to lynch them.
Shouting above the noise, I tried to restore calm. Eventually, when everything quietened down, I examined the body and started piecing together the full story.
What finally emerged was that Makhathini had allegedly tried to smack a .30-30 lever action rifle out of one of the ranger’s hands with a spade, striking the barrel and accidentally triggering the firing mechanism. The bullet hit him under the left armpit, killing him instantly.
However, the sorry saga didn’t end there. Soon afterwards, a distressed ox stumbled into the yard at the main house with an axe-wound cleaved down its back. Again, the local headmen were summoned as it was believed that a disgruntled villager had inflicted the gaping injury.
We all agreed that the most humane thing to do was to put the critically injured animal out of its misery. I took my .30-06 Winchester and, aiming for the centre point of a cross between the horns and eyes, shot it in the brain.
I slotted another round into the chamber in case the animal was not dead, clicked on the safety catch, and placed the rifle next to a tree. I then cut through the animal’s throat with a razor-sharp knife to bleed it out.
While bending down to do this, the ranger whose rifle had killed Makhathini picked up my Winchester, slipped off the safety and with the barrel pointing at me, pulled the trigger. Whether this was by accident or design, I do not know. What I do know is that the bullet lifted the hairs on the nape of my neck, missing my head by a fraction of an inch. I paled and spun around, asking what the hell he was doing.
‘Sorry Nkosana’ (little master), the man pleaded. ‘I was just trying to make your gun safe.’
‘Safe?’ I snarled. ‘Safe by taking off the safety catch?’
I was so angry that I nearly beat the crap out of him – and so did the headmen. It was a very, very close call indeed.
But one of the strangest experiences at Windy Ridge concerned a man the other workers all called ‘Mfaan’. It still haunts me.
By now, I had been at Windy Ridge for about two and a half years, and although Louis John said I was still wet behind the ears, I had certainly come a long way in getting to grips with the realities of working as a wildlife game ranger. It was a tough gig, but one that I relished with a passion.
One morning I was taking roll call and noticed a newcomer standing at the end of the line. He was a short, stocky man dressed in tattered rags and there was a stench about him that would repel a hyena. His teeth were rotten black stumps and his gnarled hands were rough and calloused, the nails broken and dirty.
Louis John was also there and asked the regular staff where this guy came from and why was he at roll call. They told us that he lived close to the reserve and his name was Mfaan. Although he didn’t talk much, they said he could outwork any man when it came to hard physical labour.
I looked at him closely. His expression was unfathomable, his eyes radiating both fear and bewilderment, and there seemed to be something a little out of kilter about him. However, Louis John agreed to take him on the payroll for a trial period.
As the staff said, he was an unbelievably hard worker. He could dig like an excavator and had the strength of five men. Whatever we showed him to do, he did exceptionally well, as long as it was simple such as digging ditches or other manual labour. He never initiated conversation and, if spoken to, would react with a rotten-toothed smile, nod his head and simply say, ‘Eehh.’ That seemed to be the extent of his verbal communication.
Mfaan was delighted when we gave him his first staff uniform, a pair of overalls and gum boots. He beamed with pride, strutting and prancing around like a king. I have never seen anyone so ecstatic. I looked on in amazement, particularly as otherwise Mfaan seemed to have no material desires whatsoever. In fact, on pay days he would hand over his money to his workmates, who would laugh while pocketing his hard-earned cash.
However, it was a completely different story with his weekly food ration. This he jealously guarded, snarling and mock charging if anyone came close, and the rest of the staff soon learnt to keep a respectful distance during meal times.
I watched this unusual behaviour with interest. Why did he have no use for money but loved his uniform? Why did he guard his food exactly as a wild animal would? Something was amiss and I became increasingly convinced that Mfaan’s story was much more complex than simply one of mental disability. I was determined to find out more.
For me, most puzzling of all his behaviour was that he never cooked food, eating his maize meal, salt, sugar and dried bean rations raw – again, just like a wild animal. I questioned the staff about this but they just pointed to their heads making circular motions indicating that they thought he was wathlanya (crazy).
A few months after Mfaan joined the squad, I took out two international clients who wanted to shoot baboons for their trophy collection. We tracked down a troop close to Inthibane camp and the first client had a clean kill, bringing an animal down with a single bullet. But the second client botched his shot, wounding the baboon and it ran off clutching its stomach. We then spent the next two days searching for it in thick bush, eventually finding the unfortunate creature lying crumpled in shallow water up against the Enseleni river bank. It had been shot in its gut and must have suffered an agonising death. I shook my head in sadness. Taking out trophy hunters and having to track wounded animals was beginning to take its toll on me. I couldn’t see the point of having a once-beautiful creature stuffed and decorating a wall with accusatory glass eyes.
I retrieved the baboon and took it back to Inthibane Camp, which was closer than the main skinning shed, as we needed to prepare the decomposing animal quickly before its hair started slipping. Mfaan was hard at work in the camp excavating foundations for a new building and I asked him to help with the skinning.
When Mfaan saw the dead baboon with a bullet hole in its gut, he went ballistic, jumping up and down and shrieking in distress. Baring the black stumps of his teeth and with his eyes rolling with fear, he ran off and shinned up the nearest tree, howling uncontrollably.
At roll call the next morning, I asked why Mfaan was not present. The staff made the usual ‘he’s crazy’ gestures, but this time I demanded a reply. Why did the dead baboon have such an effect on him? We would not leave until I got an answer.
Eventually the induna (headman) stepped forward and for the first time I was told the truth. As a young child, Mfaan had attended the small rural school at Ntambanana village and was extremely bright. However, others in his class were jealous so arranged for some older boys to beat him up. This they did repeatedly, so much so that Mfaan suffered brain damage.
‘Then both his parents died,’ the induna continued. ‘With no one to care for him he wandered off into the bush and was taken in by a family of baboons that lived in the hills of KwaBiyela, further up the Enseleni River.’
With a start, I realised that was roughly the same area where I had taken the trophy hunters. It all made sense. I had inadvertently asked Mfaan to skin the corpse of one of his family members. The dead baboon had most likely been a friend. As a bullied orphan and outcast, these animals were the only kinsmen he had left.
I cried a silent tear for being so naive.
Mfaan never did return to Windy Ridge. I was later told that he re-joined his adopted family and was once more living in the KwaBiyela hills along the winding river valley. Sometimes cattle herders would see him with the troop, but he avoided them at all costs.
His trust in humans had been shattered forever.
4
DEATH IN THE GUARRI BUSHES
It’s a Thursday morning I will never forget. I even remember the exact time; seven-thirty. The workers had gathered in front of me as I gave instructions for tasks scheduled that day.
Then the quiet buzz of daybreak shattered with the sharp crack of a gunshot echoing in the hills from the valley below. Then another.
I saw birds flapping skywards, squawking wildly. I knew exactly where the shots had come from; a lush, terraced hillside that had been planted with cotton many years ago but was now rewilded. It was a favourite grazing ground for wildebeest.
At first, I thought it might be rangers shooting at poachers’ hunting dogs that had somehow got in through the game fence. But whatever it was, I needed to check it out.
Although not envisaging a major problem, I grabbed the R1 automatic rifle I had been issued after enrolling as a police reservist and ran down the valley. Finding nothing unusual, I then ran along the reserve’s boundary fence to the top corner on the hill, which was a good lookout position. I sat in the long grass, watching and listening, my weapon at the ready. I had two twenty-round magazines taped together for instant use but did not think that I would need them.
Then, down in the steep valley a herd of blesbok appeared, running panic-stricken along a contour of the hill in the distance. Their snow-white faces glinted in the blazing early morning sun and, looking through binoculars, I noticed one of the animals at the back floundering. It was obviously wounded.
Then, amazed, I saw two men following the animal. One appeared to be armed with a rifle, although at that distance I couldn’t be sure. Could they be poachers? This early in the morning?
I kept low, watching from my vantage point on the high ground. This was highly unusual, as poachers usually only operated under cover of darkness. They were never so bold as to shoot animals on a game reserve in broad daylight – especially with the main house no more than a mile away.
What the hell was going on? If they were poachers, why were they so brazen?
Suddenly the two men broke off the chase and left the blesbok herd. They then came up the hill directly towards my position. I tightened my sweaty grip on the R1. Those two magazines I had hurriedly grabbed as I sped off now seemed very useful. This situation could go south at any moment.
Taking cover behind a guarri bush, I waited for them to come closer. In front was a young man holding a spear, while behind was a large, heavily-built older man carrying a .303 rifle. It was obvious that he had shot and wounded the blesbok. Having been in the odd fray and arrested poachers a few times, I instinctively knew that this was going to be serious. I was on my own with no backup.
My heart was beating like a locomotive, my entire body wildly pumping adrenaline. Louis John, who had been in many shootouts with poachers, told me that at times like this, I needed to be totally focused and controlled – and always have good cover. He also stressed that I would instinctively know when to act with deadly force. It was something I had to decide for myself; no one could teach me how to do it.
I steadied myself, remembering Louis John’s words, breathing evenly and steadying my emotions. I waited until they were about fifteen yards away, then stood and, pointing my automatic rifle at the armed men, shouted in Zulu.
‘Stop right there!’
The older man panicked and swung the rifle off his shoulder. He had a strange expression on his face and I watched as he brought the weapon up, almost in surreal slow motion, and levelled the barrel at my chest. There was no doubt he was going to shoot me. Without having time to aim, I fired, shooting from the hip.
He winced as the bullets struck but didn’t fall. I continued pulling the trigger until the magazine emptied. I then hurriedly changed over to the next one.
The younger man sprinted off while the gunman ducked into the guarri bush thicket. The bushes heaved as he barged through, then stopped. I knew he would be lying in ambush, expecting me to follow.
With my heart now pumping even more ferociously, I stood dead still, barely moving, waiting to see what would happen next. To follow the gunman into the thicket would be suicide, as he would shoot the instant I entered. After about ten minutes, I decided there was nothing I could do except go and get help.
As I did not have a mobile phone or handheld radio, I ran as fast as I could down the hill to the main office, shouting to Maureen, the reserve secretary, to call the police.
‘I’ve hit a contact,’ I wheezed as I charged into the office, my tortured lungs gasping for air. ‘He tried to shoot me and I don’t think I missed him.’
Maureen dialled the police dog unit in Richards Bay, who said they were on their way. However, we were about forty miles inland on mainly dirt roads and it took them close on an hour to reach Windy Ridge. I waited anxiously with dire images flashing though my mind. Was the man dead? I knew even shooting from the hip that I could not have missed at that range and with the amount of ammo I fired off. He also had run into the bush as if he was wounded.
