David flicked on his torch as well, searching for tracks or blood spoor indicating if an animal had been killed and dragged off. There were no gaps revealing where a poacher could have cut his way in. I switched on my halogen torch, sweeping its beam up and down the fence.
Except after gunshots.Īfter a few minutes of absolute stillness, I knew we had been set up.
In Africa the bush is never willingly mute the cicadas never cease. He would keep watch while I crawled to the fence to cut off the retreat if a firefight erupted.Īn acrid whiff of cordite spiced the evening air. Poachers like to keep their escape route open and I made a circling motion with my arm to David. As any game ranger in Africa knows, professional poachers will shoot first and shoot to kill. Tightly choked pump-action scatterguns with heavy pellets were our weapons of choice against poachers, for in the dark, in the bush, things are about as close and personal as you can get. Pulling over behind a large anthill, David was first out as we eased through a cluster of acacia trees, nerves on edge, trigger fingers tense, watching and listening. Twilight was darkening fast and I slowed as we approached the western fence and killed the headlights. These thugs had to be from somewhere else. Our employees were mainly local and exceptionally loyal. I had talked often with the izinduna – headmen – of the surrounding rural Zulu tribes and they were adamant that their people were not involved. I couldn't work out who they were or where they were coming from. They had been targeting us for almost a year now. Poachers had been the scourge of our lives since my fiancée Françoise and I bought Thula Thula, a magnificent game reserve in central Zululand. I would have felt better knowing him and his team were on their way but only static greeted David's attempts to contact him.
Ndonga was the head of my Ovambo guards and a good man to have on your side in a gunfight, having served in the military. With all the excitement buzzing he was not going to be left behind.Īs I twisted the ignition key and floored the accelerator, David grabbed the two-way radio. Max, my brindle Staffordshire bull terrier, scrambled onto the seat between us. I grabbed a shotgun and followed, leaping into the driver's seat. Flocks of squawking birds scrambled, silhouetted in the crimson sunset.ĭavid, my ranger, was already sprinting for the trusty old Land Rover. It was a sound wired into a game ranger's psyche. In the distance, the percussive shot of a rifle sounded like a giant stick of firewood cracking.
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