My first day in the swamp

My first day in the swamp.

It was early May 2012. My first season as a C206 pilot for Safari Air LTD, a subsidiary of a large hunting operation in the Zambezi Delta. It was a blissful time, flying every second or third day to Beira and on the odd day into the war torn Luabo area. I was as green as bush pilots come, every part of this adventure was new and exciting. I absorbed every single second with wide eye’s. This incredibly remote area offering up scenes of dark green and lush jungle-like bush that I never knew existed on the African continent. Palm tree’s so large that they stood like sentinels over the swamp land. The exceptional palm being tall enough to be used as a navigational reference, even from 1000ft above. Learning the visual references to fly this area in a competent and confident manner would take me a lot longer than I thought at the time, but that is a story for another day.

After refueling one of our aircraft in the afternoon, I waltzed into the main camp searching for a cold cool drink

to satiate my post, drum lifting thirst. The camp manager and chief pilot caught me in the act of scooping a cold coke from the deep freeze, he chuckled to himself and asked if I would be interested in joining him on a hunting trip to the swamps tomorrow. As I was a hunter at the time and fitter than most, I immediately jumped at the opportunity.  He told me that the other pilot would cover for me for the day. I was then instructed in a very serious manner on the essentials of what to wear and what to borrow from the other professional hunters. I found it strange that I could not wear my farm style leather boots and that a full body overall was considered the best clothing for the job….in 40C heat and 100% humidity it did not make much sense to my naive understanding of hunting in the Delta.

That night I begged, borrowed and stole what was required for my adventure, including a pair of all-star, long top canvas shoes. My hunting friends joked with me that I would not come out alive and that just like an American client this silly pilot would “drop like a fly’. As you can imagine, sleep did not come easy that evening as the ominous campfire stories of being face to face with 1000 buffalo, removing finger long leeches from your legs and walking through waist high water in crocodile infested papyrus banks played tricks on my mind. It all looked so wonderful from the sky, how could it possibly be “that’ tough. How wrong I was….

I awoke to the howl of a short exhaust V6 petrol engine and the dull clatter of tank tracks coming from the other side of the airfield. This monster in the darkness was familiar to me but on this particular morning, the sound caused my stomach to churn. It was now my turn to ride this armoured vehicle into one of the most remote wilderness areas on our planet. I was changed, backpack on and out the door of my rough little pilot cottage in a flash, the excitement of the unknown and willingness to prove myself to the “locals’ had me running. I met the beast on the road, loud American accent’s preceding her arrival. The B/V is a hydraulically articulating, twin bodied, fully amphibious military vehicle designed to conquer all terrain. The only seat’s you want to sit on, are the driver and co-driver positions, as the rear area of both carriages have plastic bench’s. Comfort was not in the original design as driving over snow and water created a magic carpet style ride. This was not the case in the swamp’s.

As the sun lit the horizon directly in front of us, our iron steed howled faithfully eastbound as the baked earth of the flood plain jarred and beat us for our sin’s. The 3-speed automatic gear box being the only smooth part of the 2-hour ride out to no man’s land, seamlessly shifting us through the never-ending saw grass. The flood plain on the outskirts of the swampland was so expansive that it was akin to being far out on the ocean, ground fog held gently in small pools and against clumps of short bush. Just like the ocean explorers of old, a shout came from the helm. “THE ISLAND AHEAD’ -exclaimed our fearless leader. It was the final outpost before the swamp. A place almost atoll in appearance, where previous swamp hunter’s made camp and augmented their deployment into the swampland.

We passed through the bush island slowly, under beautiful ironwood tree’s offering reprieve from the intense East African sun. I imagined the old camps under these trees, fine colonial gentleman sipping on gin and tonics, discussing the ways of the world with big bore rifles resting against their chair side. My respect grew for this endeavor as these men used to hike into this area and mokoro across papyrus rivers. They spent weeks here to shoot just one buffalo while the modern hunter spends only one day. Times have changed, humans adapt and overcome but the act has certainly lost some of its true allure, I thought quietly to myself.

The steel brakes brought the 3-ton machine to a stop on the edge of a pool of water known as the “petrol station’, a large papyrus bank grew southbound from this pool and to the North was a large area of sawgrass. Directly North East from this position standing dark and silhouette against the still rising sun was the sentinel or “the lone palm’. One of the more important navigational references in this barren terrain. I leapt from the iron horse as my legs were stiff from standing, there was no way to sit on the long ride out. Although the local Mozambique trackers managed to sleep the entire journey, the benefits of being bush born and bred. Two old tracks led into this seemingly innocent pool of water. A “Mahdala’ or older tracker gripped my shoulder and looked menacingly into the pool and said-“no go deh…crocodile’. I kept my distance from the pool while the hunting party readied themselves for what seemed like war, ammo belts, knives, webbing and camel backs were put on in military fashion. The vehicle was stripped of its canvas canopy and prepped. Delicious bacon and egg cupcake-like treats were passed around with a freshly percolated cup of coffee. The V6 hummed to life and we slipped into the stinking, dark tea colored pool of the crocodile.

Nothing could prepare me for the size of these slow-moving rivers of papyrus. Some of them 100 meters wide and easily 3 meters deep with papyrus stalks as thick as a man’s arm standing 3 meters above the surface of the water. Being inside this living breathing ecosystem in the iron steed at 0700 with a low sun caused almost complete blackness. The tank tracks struggling to push through these immense obstacles. Sometimes a papyrus stalk would not move aside and would break with an almighty crack. I could hear this noise all around me though and asked our driver the reason, he said-“Pal, you are currently in the middle of a large herd of elephants, look at the white egrets flying above us’. I looked up through our circle in the stalks and noticed the amount of these birds, it was beautiful and then I heard them. The deep guttural moaning and trumpeting of these 4-legged grey giants within in tens of meters of us, their noise drowned in the foliage. I was absolutely perplexed and amazed, It felt completely surreal as though I was on the set of Avatar. Climbing out of this river of papyrus we pulled up for a short rest and refreshment in a circle of saw grass. Looking back, we could see all the grey trunks and heads of the larger bull Elephants contrasting intensely with the vivid green of the papyrus, egrets swirling intently.

The B/V ground to a halt, tank tracks squeaking and squealing as my head rocked forward abruptly. Commotion in the front and trackers standing tall on the aft railing caused my stomach to turn. Binoculars fixed to face, hunters intent on task. The egrets gave away the secret of the Zambezi Delta. Nowhere else on this earth can this incredible act of mother nature be viewed by the mortal man. It is the reason National Geographic came to our camp and gave us thousands of dollars for the privilege of photographing this incredible phenomenon.  The black death, the horned devil…let no man under estimate the power and ferocity of the African Buffalo (Syncerus caffer). The difference here is that 500 meters from our position, almost panoramic in proportion was 1500 swamp buffalo. No where else on earth doe’s this spectacle of nature occur. I was truly speechless…stopped in the moment.

Sawgrass sliced the skin between my fingers, paper thorns pressed annoyingly into the palm of my hand and the weight of the shoulder held 375. Holland and Holland pushing down on my prone frame. Not to mention the yellow swamp Mosquito, designed to draw blood from animals with 1-inch thick skin injecting its maxillae into every bit of taught clothing on my body. This route march was unbearable. 40degree C heat and 100% humidity absolutely assaulting the sense’s. Nothing can prepare you for the feeling of breathing air which feel’s like fire at every inhale, but nonetheless we pushed on. The circling egret’s and the strong smell of bovine floating over the all commanding wall of papyrus, was all we had to confirm the position of our quarry. The hunting party stopped at the edge of a papyrus river, surely there was no way through this on foot?! On the contrary, there was. Rifles overhead, water up to my chin and brown leech filled swamp water stinging my legs as we waded through this impenetrable fibrous mass of green.

That unforgettable smell of cattle is something that I will never forget, it is truly all consuming. Especially when your head is low and lion-like in the light green saw grass, 100 metres from thousands of these incredible members of Africa’s big five. The American clients swaying with exhaustion after a 5km march through immense heat and humidity. I took a deep breath and raised myself up in a push up position to have a look at these incredible animals. That sight will stay with me always and forever……hundreds of Buffalo cows lifting their head’s and looking down their muzzles at me…. nostril’s flaring at me in a curious manner. In between the armada of animals, a gap open’s and out step’s the dream of so many hunters of old. Head swinging side to side under a heavy set of 38” inch horn’s, shoulder’s broad and explosive in design. Time seems to stop.....each breath noticed, every heart beat felt…the ground tremor’s beneath me with every movement of the herd. The Dagha boy or old man stand’s resolute, defiantly looking down on these silly humans…... shooting stick’s come up in a smooth motion, the colossal 458. Winchester Magnum rest’s gently on the bamboo………

The acidic pong of gunpowder fill’s my nostrils …...my vision shakes as 1500 animals scatter in all directions….I cannot forget the portrait of the King in all his splendor……I will recount no more.