with us guessing as to what towns they were. In the far distance to our left we saw the lights of a big city, and George assured me that it was Pretoria; this time we were on the right course.
Suddenly there was a very loud rumbling noise, and our plane shuddered. Two fighter jets were buzzing us, very close. My heart stopped, and then went into a high speed rhythm. Nel fiddled with the radio until a voice, first identifying the speaker as a captain in the SA Air Force, demanded our identity and our destination. Nel explained that we were flying from Piet Retief to Potgietersrus.
The captain was exasperated; you could hear it in his voice. We were way off course; we were minutes away from the Zimbabwean border, where we certainly would be shot down, he told us. We made a sharp turn to the left, flying towards the city lights we had earlier seen in the distance. It was Pietersburg, not Pretoria as George had assumed.
Once we had flown over Pietersburg we knew our whereabouts, this was home territory. The N1 highway was now our guide, following it towards Potgietersrus. I was a bit apprehensive that I might become a blood spatter against a cliff in the mountains we had to cross between the city and the town, and constantly reminded my two friends that we should gain altitude. This time my advice was taken, and we gained height. We reached Potgietersrus safely to be confronted by our next problem.
The airfield was a day-time-only field, there were no landing lights. Nel solved this problem by diving a few times low over his house in town. Then we circled the airfield. Fairly soon a car approached from town driven my Nel’s wife. She put out ten storm lanterns, fuelled by paraffin, five on each side of the runway and parked the car at the head of the landing strip with the headlights shining down it. It was a bit of a bumpy landing, but we did get down safely.
Two weeks later George phoned me, he had an explanation for our around the country trip. The compass in the aircraft was faulty, and had to be replaced. Good and well I thought, we nearly got misplaced, I have never been in a smallish propeller driven airplane since, and don’t intend getting into one ever again!
MR HAUGHTY, Damn-it-land and the Hellbokke
Damn-it-land and Hellbokke? I must explain.
When young I was a hunter, searching for pray across Africa. My constant companion and tracker, but not friend, was Mr. "Haughty".
The name "Haughty"? It has been many years since and I still cannot recall his real name. Years ago, while searching for a record horned Nyala bull in the bush of Northern Natal, this old man pitched up in our camp, without saying a word to me, or anybody else, made bed under a tree and went to sleep. He was given the name due to his dour and unapproachable personality, and his obvious pride in his hunting and tracking abilities.
The next morning this gentleman, who was obviously Zulu, would not share our meal, but made his own fire, cooked his own food and ate by himself.
Then he spoke for the first time:”You want the king Nyala’s? Come!” and he lead the way into the bush. Shortly he had me in range of a bull, with the record length horns I was searching for.
Haughty was never actually employed by me, but whenever I went out on a hunting safari, he was there, to accompany and track for me. How he knew I planned a hunting trip I do not know, it was either the "bush-telegraph or telepathy.
During our second year of association I was invited to Namibia, to hunt Gemsbok. Haughty insisted on riding on the back of the truck, making himself as comfortable as possible on top of the tents and other camping gear, and slept most of the way.
Once in Namibia we stopped next to the road, south of Mariental, for lunch. Haughty, who was obviously not well travelled those days, and had not seen much more than the bush and forests of Natal, was amazed by the desert country, the dryness of the air, the heat and the scarcity of plants.
He stood next to the road staring over the desert, mumbling to himself and shaking his head. It was the first time I saw the old man unsure of himself and confused. He looked at me and asked, “What are we doing here?”
I explained that we had come to hunt Gemsbok, which is a semi-desert antelope and thus not known in Natal. I had to describe that it was a medium sized buck, grey in colour and prettily marked in black and white, with long straight horns.
The puzzlement on his face grew as I explained that Gemsbok lived of the bits of dry grass and the desert shrubs viewed, and did not need much water. He shook his head in disbelief.
Once we reached our destination we established camp under some Camel-thorn trees, next to a windmill.
Early mornings in the desert are cold, and Haughty, next to his fire, blanket over shoulders, grumbled to himself. For the first time the old man accepted food from my fire, he hugged the mug of coffee and ate the meat we offered, without a thank you, but appreciation in his eyes.
For the first few days we did not come across any game worth shooting. Then on the fourth day we found a small band of the magnificent buck, Gemsbok. We followed for hours, waiting for them to settle down under a Camel-thorn tree, to rest through the heat of midday.
The prospect of reaching our goal made us forget the heat and thirst. Haughty and I set off on a careful approach, using whatever boulder, dune or thorn shrub we could find, for cover.
Once within range I took careful aim at the big bull’s head and pulled the trigger. He fell like a stone, and the rest of the small herd took off at high speed.
Haughty yelled: “You got him!” and charged towards the fallen animal, grabbing its horns and twisting the head so to cut the throat.
This is when things went wrong. The bullet had not gone where I had intended, but had only grazed the horn and knocked the Gemsbok unconscious. With Haughty pulling and tugging at it, the bull came too.
By then the animal could not have been in the best of moods, with a massive headache. The manipulation of his sore head was not appreciated, so it fought back. He took a wild swipe at Haughty with his horns, cutting the skin across Haughty's ribs, and somehow got Haughty lodged between his horns.
With Haughty hanging over his head, gripped around the neck, the bull took off. It could not lift its head to plan its route, due to Haughty's weight; so it ran straight, straight into a Wait-a-bit bush, named so because of its covering of thousands of hooked thorns, about one to two centimeters long. Once caught in these thorns it was difficult to dislodge them, and it took time to do so. From there the name, "Wait-a-bit".
For fear of hitting Haughty, I could not shoot. So I ran closer, while the bull was working Haughty deeper into the thorns, bearing forward. At close range I fired the death shot. It took me a long time to cut, and pull, Haughty loose, to get him freed from the hooked thorns stuck into his skin and clothes.
While I was dressing and cleaning his wounds, Haughty for the first, and only, time in our long association called me “Sir”.
With tears running down his cheeks: “Sir, let us please go home, this Damn-it-land and its Hellbokke are not for us humans!”
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