The cicadas have gone quiet but the pesty little Mopane bees are still crawling into your ears, nose and other more uncomfortable sweaty places, but you are hardly aware of it, because this is your long awaited South African hunting safari.
As you look down at the large hoofprint with the blob of pink blood next to it, you know buffalo don’t follow the script. The 500 grain bullet through the chest and lungs should have ended your African Hunting Safari. Buffalo obviously don’t comprehend death.
Even as you’re leaving the Mopane shrub to crawl down the sandy river embankment with your PH and team you cannot help wondering what Diana the goddess of hunting has planned for you. Maybe you should’ve visited the sandy tropical beaches like the wife suggested?
Then you see him. The old dagga bull. His head with the massive bosses facing towards you, the pink foam around his mouth, showing his anger. He died where he turned himself into the hunter waiting in ambush for you.
The loose relaxing feeling running from your stomach to your head as the adrenaline flows out of your muscles make you realise the effort was worth the result. You sit down in the sand next to your trophy buffalo, a cold one in your hand, contemplating the words of Ruark: “You will hunt buffalo until you are dead, because there is something about them that makes intelligent people into complete idiots. Like me. They are the only beast in Africa that can make my stomach turn like it rolls over when you’ve had too much grog and don’t know whether the bed will stay there for you. You will hunt more buffalo!”
Once again you realise that you won’t feel the sand of tropical beaches under your feet anytime soon.