RowanLewisAfrica

Life Lessons from the African Bush

~Rowan Lewis~

 

Deep in the soft earth edging the spring-fed stream the mirrored pair of half moon impressions stared back at him mysteriously, loud with truth and fine detail, but silent to an inexperienced or impatient eye.

“From yesterday evening,” the dark man said to me in Zezuru, “around sundown,” motioning with his arm and outstretched hand toward the western horizon.  Enoch was a Shona, of the largest language group between the Zambezi and Limpopo Rivers, the dominant tribe in Zimbabwe.  He was also fluent in the languages of the Ndebele and Tonga peoples, as well as English.  The language I relied on him most for however was “sign” language – interpreting the signs of the wild.  Enoch was my tracker.

“He looks small…?” I argued, “Perhaps young?”

“It is the same one that looked big to you yesterday!” Enoch teased.

“Are you sure?” I asked, smiling at the man’s boldness.  We had been hunting together for a few years now and shared some close calls with dangerous game.  We also shared a common faith in God, which gave us a greater trust in each other.

 

With the gentleness of a father and the affection of a son Enoch respectfully interpreted for me what he had seen, enlightening my veiled eyes: “See how the outer toe wears around the inner one at the point on his left back foot… and here he steps a little short, perhaps from an injury when he was younger.  It is the same one.  I am certain.”

On firmer ground the impressions in the dust were easier for me to “see” and before long we were loaded with water, our rifles chambered with expanding bullets followed by solids in the magazines.  With safeties on we headed out in single file, trackers working the “spoor,” into the lightly wooded hill country after the “dagga-boy,” a lone bull Cape Buffalo.

 

As I carefully followed my trackers, leaving the tiny, bothersome Mopani bees behind near the spring, but still rudely interrupted by the burning sensation of the odd Tsetse fly bite, I found my spirit reminded of a verse I had read first many years ago from Job 13 verse 27:  You put my feet in shackles. You follow my trail by engraving marks on the soles of my feet.

As I pondered on those words I had to consider that just like this buffalo we were now following, recognising him by the “marks on the soles” of his feet, and therefore shackling him so that he could not walk away without us recognising where he went, so it is with God who has marked our feet, and follows us, hunting us down to find us, to woo us and win us to himself.

 

The African sun beat down on us with an intensity that surprised me when I considered this was winter in Zimbabwe!  The going was slow and often we would lose the sign in the thickly matted grass.  A herd would have been easier to follow, but most herds only boast young or immature bulls.  I was looking for a mature animal which had at least competed for breeding rights and had a few tales to tell.  A trophy buffalo with a forty inch spread, no boss to speak of and milk still on its nose is not one to be bragging about.  In contrast, a wily old Dagga-boy has lived life: often battle scarred; has survived lion attacks; a few hunters’ efforts; and is a gladiator in his own right.  He knows his piece of dirt well, has studied each gulley and mound in his domain, and the wind eddies that play amongst them.  He has survived because he learned to be smart.  He is still learning more with each passing season.  Out here you don’t get big by being stupid!  My greatest ally therefore… complacency!  He may have become just a wee bit too confident in himself.

 

I chuckled to myself… “Yes, Lord, just like me sometimes – so sure of my ability that I go into some things without ever consulting you on the matter – such a weakness in my armour… and my character!”  In moments I was convicted and found myself seeking greater sensitivity to God’s Spirit.  Hearing the Lord’s instruction has saved my life in times past when dealing with Africa’s dangerous wildlife, and given success!

 

The signs led us upward and away from the spring, walking into the prevailing wind.  When we had a sure trail we would all fall in line, trackers working together like a pair of pointing dogs hunting a bird, the guns following close behind scrutinizing each shadow and dark rock for signs of life or movement.  If the sign was lost we would call a halt and the tracking team would fan out within safe reach for the guns to get a shot in if needed, until new tracks or fresh dung was found, then with a gentle whistle we would all gather again to confirm it before continuing the stalk.

 

Atop a ridge which formed a false saddle between two hills we lost all sign.  With hand signals I directed two trackers to follow the trail toward the low hill, and two the higher, while I waited and glassed the valley before me, beautiful with its smoky blue hues against a clear azure sky.  Then I heard His voice, still and gentle on the wind, “I made it all for you, my Boy.”  Tears welled up and overflowed, my heart overwhelmed by the tangible love of my Father God.  I was glad I was alone in that moment. “Thank you Dad,” I replied affectionately, adding, “I love you.”

I could feel God’s pleasure envelop me with warmth, so I ventured more, “Have I told you lately that you are an awesome father?”  Sometimes Dads just need to hear that from their boys, even God.

My wonderment was interrupted by a soft whistle.  The high hill tracking team had fresh sign.  We called the others in.

 

The narrow path picked its way between jagged boulders as we ascended toward the summit.  Tension mounted.  Excitement grew.  I just knew we would find the bull on the top of this hillock.  I controlled our pace to a silent creep, one man watching the tracks while the rest searched every new piece of landscape as it was revealed by each successive step.  This day there was no room for rushing.  Time was our asset, our ally.  We would be irresponsible not to use it.

 

Cresting the climb a grassy hollow opened up before us, lightly wooded with stunted Bush Willows and Mufuti trees surrounding a course grove of thick thorny scrub.  A cloud drifted over the sun.  Warm air breathed against my left cheek.  Thanksgiving and praise rose in my heart like a battle chant… while my eyes burned with searching anticipation.

 

A little puff of smoke drifted from Enoch’s ash bag, hovered a moment before rushing off toward our right to confirm the wind.  I didn’t like it.  I halted the trackers with a hiss, directing them to climb toward the higher land to our right, following the wind… slowly… very slowly; every step carefully placed to avoid the crunch of pebbles or crackle of dry leaves.  We sought out the cover of the shadows and advantage of elevation.  Five yards, six… “Psst!”  The line halted and I raised my glasses.  The old Zeis 10×40’s bore into the dark mass of thorn scrub.  Despite the persistent cloud above, I was certain I could see the course black hair of a buffalo’s hide beyond the timber at thirty yards.  Moments later the tracker foremost motioned me forward with excited urgency.  Beyond his shaking finger a second buffalo grazed forty yards away, covered by brush but moving slowly toward a clear channel.  The shooting sticks went up, “Safety off… wait for my word… let the shoulder clear… wait…”

A tracker interrupted nervously, “The wind, Sir… it’s changing!” 

“Shhh!”  I was confident with our position.  Any cross wind would be channelled rapidly through the gap between buffalo and us, out into the valley beyond.

His swaying head cleared the brush, crenulations decorating the swollen roots of his horns, “Nice boss!  We want to shoot this one.  Wait for the left leg forward…” I continued.  The bull worked slowly at tufts of dry grass, left and right.  Then he stepped forward.

“Now!  Keep it low, just behind that leg!”

Ka-boom!  The heavy calibre rifle rang out across the valley!  The big bull bucked, lunging into a run downhill, out of view.  “Reload!” I ordered, but needn’t have as Istvan Palinkas was an experienced hunter of home grown Hungarian Wild Boar, but had dreamed of this moment – hunting an African Buffalo – for fifteen years.  He was well read, and ready… fortunately!

 

The clattering of hooves on rock focussed our vision to our left as a dark mass with sweeping curls and shining wet nose stormed back into view, running straight toward us!  Staring down a shaggy nose the bull halted at twenty yards to make out what we were.  “Shoot him!” I whispered harshly.  Istvan hesitated.

The bull took a few more paces toward us… “Shoot him, Istvan!  Shoot him now!”  My voice was urgent.

Before we began this hunt, my client had asked me to do my best to not back up on his buffalo if possible, unless the situation became life threatening.  That transition was about two feet away!

Ka-boom!  His .375 H&H shouted again.  The bulls head rocked back and he spun through 200 degrees and ran five strides to collapse out of sight amongst the thorns.  

 

Meanwhile the second bull uncertain of where the problem was coming from sought a down-wind position – straight through our little group of hunters!  Trackers hidden in the thicket beside me froze wide eyed as the buffalo thundered past them the length of our shooting sticks, the iron sights of my .458 tracking him steadily as he arced closely round us!  Downwind at sixty feet he suddenly caught our scent, snorted loudly and thundered away down the leeward slope.  We returned full focus on the downed bull, Istvan, having received barked orders to keep watch on the wounded animal while I worried about the live one!  A careful skirting around gave us opportunity to get two extra finishing shots into the animal, and it expired quickly.

 

Honouring the animal for its life and courage I quietly fulfilled my custom – laying a hand on his head and thanking it for its life, for the lives it has helped by giving us his, and then thanking God for his provision.  Istvan, in the German Woodsman tradition, plucked a leaf and placed a “last meal” in the animal’s mouth, paying his respects.

 

A little while later, the adrenaline bleeding out of my bloodstream, Enoch caught my attention.  He indicated the buffalo’s rear left hoof.  The outer toe curled around the front of the inner one.  The rear of the animal’s rump bore many scars from a lion attack, and his scrotum had been ripped open but healed poorly.  Perhaps these injuries affected the limp?  This was the bull we had followed all this way.  I nodded approvingly and squeezed his shoulder.

 

I couldn’t help but recall that just as we pursued this buffalo bull, recognising the marks of his feet, and tracking him over two days of sign to find him, how much God has pursued me.  That night as the camp fire embers died down to a soft glow, the Southern Cross and Scorpio hanging bright in the Milky Way above, I drew close to the Father, in awe of how he has pursued my heart.  Though I was scarred by life and damaged with old wounds, limping along as an outcast, the Great Hunter of Heaven still searched for me, following the marks of my feet; found me, trapped my hurting heart and made me his own.  I suppose in some strange way my life as I knew it then came to an end and I began to live a new life – one in God.

 

We cannot hide from the God of heaven.  He knows us intimately, and he desires an intimate relationship with us on an individual, personal basis.  He has marked us for this purpose and pursues us with relentless kindness and passionate heart.  The Psalmist wrote in Chapter 139 versus 7-10:  Where can I go to get away from your Spirit? Where can I run to get away from you?  If I go up to heaven, you are there. If I make my bed in hell, you are there.  If I climb upward on the rays of the morning sun or land on the most distant shore of the sea where the sun sets, even there your hand would guide me and your right hand would hold on to me.

Thank you Lord, for pursuing me; for marking the soles of my feet.

 

“Seek the Lord while he may be found,” for he is seeking you (Ref: Isaiah 55:6).  If you seek him you will find him, if you seek him with all of your heart (Ref: Jeremiah 29:11).

 

Istvan, Rowan, Wanda (tracker), Enoch, and “Gwesera” (Parks Game-scout) with lion-scarred “Dagga-Boy”, Cape Buffalo. 

 

[Photos and text Copyrighted to © Rowan Lewis 2008]