EARTH, A FINITE RESOURCE.

Let's be good stewards of it.

Marshall Warren

WILL WE EVER LEARN.......

When the excitement of war is gone, reality sets in.  

Everyone dies, nobody wins.

As I ponder this little poem I just wrote I am almost overwhelmed with the absolute insanity of war.  Reflecting upon the millions of people that have died I cannot  think of anything in this materialistic world that could justify their deaths. How many people would I be willing to kill in order to preserve my comfort and security?  A thousand?  A dozen?  One?  How many people would I kill for a cause; whether politics, religion, money, power or territory?

One might argue that governments or other forms of leadership are at fault. History is filled with  people that ruled and were responsible for the deaths of our fellow humans..  Certainly none of them personally killed millions.  So who does the killing?  I do.  You do.  We all do their killing for them or stand by and do nothing.

The question I ask is, why do we (the people of the world), continue to kill each other?  Will it ever stop?   Will we ever learn?  Or are we just lemmings racing to our destruction?  I guess I'm fairly disgusted.

Marshall K. Warren RA 18571901
Formally a member of:
82nd Airborne Div;  25th Inf Div (Airborne); 2nd ABG, 503rd Inf CT   (1959 to 1965)

SIMPLE, IT'S ABOUT SURVIVING.

Carolyn and I had arrived at our hunting concession, Coutada 5, in central Mozambique on the Indian Ocean, at the end of the monsoon season.  The drive from the capital of Maputo had taken two and a half nightmarish rainy days and three of my four spare tires.  The road is narrow and filled with rim splitting potholes.  We were exhausted, but our Land Rover was packed and stacked with supplies that had to be unloaded and our camp set up on the bank of the Muari river, with some degree of order before we could get any sleep.

The next morning the rains had stopped. As we went through the supplies we discovered the case of twenty-four rolls of toilet paper were soaked.  In fact, everything made of paper or cardboard was soaked.  What a mess we faced.  Life in the bush had different priorities than city life.  Going to the "toilet" became an experience in botany as we learned which leaves to use.

As I said, our campsite was about fifty yards from the Muari river.  I selected a spot under a large mopane tree to set up our tent.  Next to it was an old termite mound, about the size of a double garage.  It was covered with thick vegetation and several large trees making it impenetrable, except for the monkeys and mambas.  Behind us, the other side of the mopane tree was a small depression.  This was to be our garden.  Or rather I should say, the baboons garden.   There were also marula trees around us that produce edible fruit.  The baboons made their home in them.  Since one of my jobs was wildlife conservation we were supposed to live in harmony with them.  Not!  People and animals, even the plants, do what they have to do to survive.  Here folks killed, caught, grew or bartered for the essentials of life.  Sometimes it's unpleasant, sometimes illegal and sometimes ugly.

Our first order of survival was to salvage as much as we could of our supplies.  Rolls of toilet paper festooned the trees around us.  This even made us laugh, but the baboons really got a kick out of tearing them apart.  Everything we left sitting in the sun to dry had to be guarded.  We soon discovered that, whether baboon or person, to them, stealing was just shopping.  If you weren't guarding it you obviously didn't want it. Once our solar panel was stolen.  The thief sold it to someone in the village of Zimwalla for one million meticais, about $20. He then told me he would tell me where it was for one million meticais.  I went to get it and had to pay the people he sold it to one million meticais to get it back.  The irony is the person I had originally bought it from had stolen it from someone else.

On another occasion, we had gone to the town of Beira for supplies.  It is a hard seven-hour drive up the coast from our home in the bush.  While there someone stole my toolbox out of the back of our Land Rover.  I went to the huge outdoor market on the edge of town to replace the lost tools.  As I walked along the row of vendors, to my astonishment, I came upon my toolbox.  Nothing was missing and I was able to buy it back at a good price.

The camp consisted of our sleeping tent, storage tent, and gazebo, which served as kitchen, dining, office, and ammo reloading area.  After getting it set up I began interviewing and hiring workers.  I hired some for construction of the needed facilities and some to help me in my job of wildlife conservation and anti-poaching.  As Coutada 5 covered over a million acres it was a formidable job.

The construction workers dug a well, built a shower stall, outhouse, a large thatched roof structure for us to gather under and other things like cooking area, tables, chairs, etc.  Everything was made with local materials.   All this to try and make life as comfortable as possible for us.  Meanwhile, they slept on the ground wrapped in ragged blankets under a leadwood tree.  Cooked their mealie mais in one old pot and bathed in the river with the hippos and crocs.

Once things got organized I started patrolling.  I appointed Armando as chief ranger because he had some coveralls and a pair of black rubber boots.  Everyone else wore shower shoes, worn shorts, and ragged tee shirts.  Thus equipped we headed out looking for snares, traps and deadfalls of the poachers.  I was the only one armed as it was illegal for them to have a firearm.  I also carried my GPS navigator.  I never left camp without it.  It and my .375 H&H rifle and a pistol were my constant companions.

On one occasion I had driven several miles, parked the Land Rover and we headed out on foot to search an area I decided on.  As the sun got low on the horizon I told the men it was time to head back to the Land Rover.  While I turned on my GPS they, as one, turned and started off together in the same direction.  I told them to wait a minute while I get a fix on the truck.  They said "Why?  The Land Rover is over there."  I was completely lost, but they knew exactly where we were.  It was always like that no matter how far we went or how long we were out.

I admit I was naive when I started sending them out on patrol while I stayed in camp.  It was only after I began to speak their language that I realized they were playing me for the fool.  In this case, it was survival of the wittiest.  It turns out they were all poachers.  They would go on patrol and check their snares, traps, and deadfalls.  Then steal the snares of their competitors and bring them back to me.

An informant blew the whistle on them, so I rounded them all up for a pow-wow.  I explained they had two choices.  1)  Stop poaching and work for me or 2) Keep poaching, get fired and maybe go to jail if I caught them.  All but one elected to stay with me.  In the end, they became loyal trustworthy employees.  I didn't hesitate to go off and leave Carolyn alone with any of them to guard her against predators, animal or man.

There were many battles I lost, but the only one I gave up fighting was the illegal making and selling of sura.  Sura is a delightfully tasty, zesty, knock-you-on-your-butt, an alcoholic drink made from the common nyalla palm.  It is made by cutting the stalk and draining the greenish-yellow liquid into a container.  Then allowing it to ferment a few days to the desired potency. Of course, you have to skim off the bugs and whatever as you drink it.  Nearly everyone made it, drank it and sold it to townspeople.  Trucks would come out from the towns to collection points along highway 1 and buy it by the truckload.   I've spent many a night sitting around their cooking fires with a gourd of sura laughing and talking about the day's adventures.

As it turned out just about everyone I knew was, is or would be a poacher.  They can grow all they need, but protein is in short supply.  They needed meat.  I did arrest a few, but in the long run, my sympathy was with their need to feed their families.  I would travel to their villages and m'shambas giving lectures on the importance of wildlife conservation.  Then gather the men together and tell them "Don't be stupid and set your snares where I can find them."  I also told them to check their snares regularly and move them often.  Before going on patrol I would be sure someone knew where I was going.  The bush telegraph may not travel at the speed of light, but it sure was faster than my Land Rover.

I had finally learned what they have always known.  Life is simple.  It's about surviving.
Marshall Warren

THE MOOSE HUNT CONTINUES

Several days ago I was sitting under a spruce tree a couple of miles from my house hoping to call in a legal bull.  At about 4 o'clock I began to hear a pack of wolves moving my way.  The howling  got louder and suddenly 2 black wolves came running into the clearing I was watching.  I fired at the one nearest me dropping him in mid stride.  When I came down out of recoil the second was disappearing back into the woods.  The forest became dead silent.  After waiting a few minutes I went to check on the wolf.  It was a nice male that would weigh over a 100 pounds.

He was much to heavy for me to pick up, so I gutted him, made a shoulder harness and tied the other end to the wolf.  I began dragging him back to my vehicle.  At about the half way point I started talking to myself.  "Pacemaker don't fail me now."  I finally arrived at the van and with much difficulty picked it up and put it in.

Back at the house everyone was excited and had to come look at the wolf.  This was a rare event.  Lindy, one of my grand daughters, age 17 said she just had to have a crack at the wolves.  Another grand child, Jesse age 15, allowed as how he did to.

Early the next morning Jesse climbed a spruce tree for a better few and Lindy and I hunkered down where I had been yesterday.  Sure enough here came the wolves.  They were running back and forth on the other side of the clearing just out of range.  As we sat there trying to figure out why they were acting so strange the answer manifested itself right in front of us.  Out of nowhere appeared this big brown bear.  I dropped down on one knee and fired.  The .416 Taylor I was carrying anchored him.  We thought it was an instant kill when suddenly it reared up and started roaring and clawing the air.  WOW!  I quickly fired again and this time he was down for good. 

Jesse came running up.  We were all excited and talking at the same time.  Jesse said he had seen everything from his perch in the tree.  The wolves were all stirred up because of the bear.  He said he saw them chase the bear back into the woods.  Then after a few minutes he heard someone walking toward his tree and thought it was me, so he stared to climb down and nearly stepped right on the bears back.  What an adventure to share with two of my grand children!  A wolf and a brown bear!
For my friends that don't live in Alaska the bear measured about eight feet from nose to tail.  Standing on his hind legs he would be over nine feet tall.  That's a lot of teeth, claws and fur.

That afternoon Lindy and my son Dev skinned the bear and packed it home.  Then Lindy skinned the wolf for me.  Now the work starts, fleshing the hides.

Still no moose, but what wonderful memories this old man has.

Marshall Warren

BLACKTAIL DEER AND BROWN BEAR

My first Sitka Blacktail deer hunt in southeast Alaska.

I moved to Alaska from Texas, where I had grown up, married, my wife and I raised three children and I had been a captain for a major airline.   When I was fourteen years old I walked into a gun shop and traded a Winchester Model 62 .22 rifle for a new Ruger pistol.  No paperwork and no questions asked.  Shooting and hunting handguns has been a life long hobby.

While a paratrooper in the 82nd Airborne Division I had been on a pistol team.  I was a good shot.  However, as I stood on the beach trying to look like an old piling while a  brown bear and her three cubs fed on salmon not thirty yards away, the thought "I am a good shot" gave me no comfort. 
I was on my first deer hunt in southeast Alaska.  Of course, I had a Ruger .44 magnum handgun with a 2X scope mounted on it.  Man, was I excited!  I felt as if I had wandered into a National Geographic special.  No where I had ever hunted compared to this or had prepared me, as I needed to be, for hunting here.

Southeast Alaska consists of an group of forested island mountains.  Thousands of streams and rivers create ravines and bays with large tidal mudflats and are the ancestral homes of untold millions of salmon that pour in from the Pacific ocean.  Sitka blacktail deer, black and brown bear, wolves, coyotes, martin, mink and wolverine can be found, as well as mountain goats, moose and even elk.  I feel absolutely blessed to live, hunt and fish here.

It was late fall and the salmon run was coming to an end when I went on that first hunt.  I had anchored my boat in Cedar Cove, about an hour from Sitka. Rowing ashore in my skiff, I then carried it to the trees above the high tide line and walked along the rocky shoreline toward the grassy mudflat at the head of the bay.  The beach was littered with dead salmon.  Some half eaten and some with only the brains bitten out.  Bear signs were everywhere.  Eagles and seagulls screeched their disapproval of my interference.

At the head of the cove I hunted the grass flats and just inside the tree line.  Then  I followed the river for maybe half a mile.  As the sun began to set visibility became limited and with bear signs everywhere I got a little nervous.   Did I say these islands abounded with deer?  Well, not here and not now.  I decided to head back to the boat.

It was high tide by the time I got back to the grassy flat and the beach had narrowed to fifteen feet.  I was about a quarter mile from the skiff when, before I had time to blink, a bear was standing on the beach thirty yards in front of me.  I froze!  Another bear jumped out of the tree line and started scuffling with the first one!  Then a third bear joined the frolic.  They were the size of an average black bear.  Now I heard growling and limbs breaking inside the tree line!  All three bears stopped their antics and looked in the direction of the noise.  I thought these three were nice sized bears, until a few seconds later Momma stepped out.  I had never been this close to a brown bear before.  BIG!  That's the word I would use.  BIG!  And, oh yes, did I mention SCARED!  That's another word I would use.  I was SCARED! 
 
To my good fortune I had the wind.  Momma immediately looked at my skiff for a minute or so, then turned to her cubs and scolded them severely.  It was obvious she didn't approve of them charging onto the open beack as they had.  The cubs recovered their composure and began to feed on the dead salmon while continuing to rough house as kids do.  Momma nervously stood guard.

Meanwhile as I continued to make like a piling, my heart was pounding, my hands shook and my mind raced!  Nothing to do but wait it out.  I began to mentally prepare for the shot in case she charged.  However, the more I thought about it the more I realized that the little pop gun in my holster was not going to stop big Momma before she got to me.  Oh, she may die from a well placed shot, but I wouldn't be around to brag about it.

She became more and more agitated!  Finally, never once looking in my direction, she roughly herded her cubs back into the forest.  I stood still for another five minutes and with my .44 magnum at the ready, eased past where they had entered the tree line, then beat feet for my skiff. 

I canceled my next days hunt and took my revolver to the local gun shop in Sitka.  Walking in I laid it on the counter.  Al, who owned the store glanced down at it and asked what he could do for me.  I said I'd like to trade it for a large caliber rifle.  "Oh", he said, "had a run in with a bear, huh." 
I walked out with a .375 H&H.  It's designed for large dangerous African game.  Never the less it's my rifle of choice for the little one hundred pound sitka blacktails of southeast Alaska.

With an Alaskan brown bear only a few yards away and nothing between you but daylight, no matter what rifle you're carrying, "yer gonna wish ya had a bigger gun." 

Kim Warren

NIGHT JUMP!
At reveille that morning we had been advised by our platoon Sergeant that our company was scheduled for a practice jump that night at 2200 hrs.  The drop zone was to be an abandoned Japanese airstrip.  Uniform was full field gear, weapons and ammo.  Since this was a practice jump we were to simply gather up our parachute and report to a marshaling area that would be designated later at our squad level briefing.

That evening after Taps and chow we loaded up on deuce and a half trucks for the ride to Naha Air Force base.  For anyone watching us we would have appeared different from other GI’s.  We talked very little and when we did it was quietly.  Our movements were deliberate and ordered.  There was an air of disciplined superiority about us.  We were United States Army Paratroopers, members of the elite 82nd Airborne Division.  Our combat team was currently stationed on Okinawa as a rapid deployment force.  The rest of the world was straight legs or just “legs” as we called them.  A demeaning term applying to anyone that was not a Paratrooper.

Upon arriving at the airfield we were assigned a C-130 transport.  Each platoon had its own aircraft.  We picked up our parachutes and assisted each other in putting them on.  Then dividing up into four preassigned groups called “sticks” we boarded the aircraft.  Two sticks sat on the outboard rows of canvas benches facing in and two sticks sat on the center rows back to back facing out.  All this was done in a quiet practiced fashion.

Once seated the C-130s took off and formed up in jump formation.  There were three groups of three in trail.  It was a short quiet flight to the drop zone.  However, when the jumpmaster gave the command to “STAND UP” the atmosphere on board the aircraft immediately changed.  Every Paratrooper became a pit bull.  Our blood came up and we had” kill “in our eyes.  We were all yelling “AIRBORNE, AIRBORNE!”  Then the command “HOOK UP!” and we all snapped our static lines to the overhead cable and inserted the safety wire.  “CHECK YOUR EQUIPMENT!”  Each of us checked the parachute on the man in front and shouted “ONE OKAY, TWO OKAY!” and so on down the line.

I was pushing the port stick that night, which means I was the last man on the port side.  “STAND IN THE DOOR!”  We all moved forward a little as the first man stood in the door.  Now every eye was on the white, green and red lights above the door as we continued to yell “AIRBORNE!”  White was illuminated, red would mean abort,  we waited for green.  Every muscle in our bodies was tense.  It seemed like forever, then there it was “GREEN LIGHT!”

We poured out the door, each man pausing a fraction of a second to grab the sides of the door and propel himself out into black space.  I in turn leaped out of the aircraft and was immediately hit by an almost 200 mph blast of wind.  I started counting, “One thousand and one, one thousand and two.”  When I got to about three I felt the opening shock as the parachute harness dug into me as I decelerated.  I tried to raise my head to check the canopy.  The risers were twisted down to the back of my neck.  I frantically pulled them apart and felt myself turning as they unwound.  When I was able to look up I was shocked to see a tangled mess above me.  I had about one third of a canopy.  Some of the suspension lines were over the top of the canopy causing a malfunction we called a Mae West.

 I instantly grabbed my reserve parachute handle and executed the procedure for a partial malfunction.  The reserve pilot chute popped out and ripped the reserve chute upward.  I was falling  faster than I realized.  The reserve got tangled in my suspension lines, but slowed my decent some.  I was still fighting with it, trying to get it untangled when I hit the ground.

I awoke with a medic kneeling beside me and could hear someone screaming medic.   My back really hurt and I couldn’t move so the medics loaded me on a jeep stretcher.  We drove a short way and picked up the guy that was doing all the yelling.  He had a compound fracture of his lower leg.
At the hospital they determined I had broken nothing, just strained my back muscles.  I got a couple of months light duty, but other than that I was okay.  I was most fortunate.

The parachute riggers said the malfunction was caused by my having a bad body position when I exited the aircraft.  I didn’t believe it, but on my next jump I was very careful how I exited the aircraft.

Kim Warren         

MICAH
“Who is like YHWH?”
You came into the evening of my life like a cool breeze refreshing my spirit.  Your youth and innocence gave me hope.  Your eyes sparkled with life invigorating me.  The depth of your emotions and your keen mind inspired me.  I am blessed that our lives crossed paths, even though it has only been for a moment. 
“live justly, love mercy, and walk humbly before your God.”
Your eternal friend,

Kim

THE FLIGHT of the HUMMING Bird

HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!  Silence. 

 WHOOSH!  HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!  WHOOSH!   WHOOSH!  Silence.

 HMMMMMMMMM.  HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM.  HMMMMMMMM.  HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!  Silence.

 WHOOSH!  HMMMMMMMMMMMMM.  SILENCE!

Kim Warren

THE FLOWER

I once lived on a hill in an area called the Callahan Divide which lies off the southern end of the Great Plains.  Where the plains end the land drops abruptly from 3000ft to 500ft above sea level and becomes broken and rugged.  It was early summer when I walked out on our patio with my first cup of coffee in hand.  The blazing sun had just cleared the trees and turned the sky to a pale blue.  Not a hint of a cloud marred the vast empty sky that stretched, well, as far as you could imagine.  The sun had already begun to give the day a washed out look typical of west Texas summers.  The ground is rocky and populated with cactus, scrub oaks and cedar.  Their faded green only adds to the dull effect.  As I got to the edge of the concrete patio I looked down to check for any venomous critters before sitting down.  That’s when I saw the flower.

I sat down beside it glancing around expecting to see others that had bloomed overnight.  There were none, just the one solitary flower sprouting from among the rocks.   I said, “Where in the world did you come from?  What are you doing in a place like this?”   I bent over and looked at it more closely.  It was exquisite.  The color, symmetry and detail were marvelous.  It was a thing of perfect beauty.  Again I looked around me and then up at the sky.  Turning back to the flower I slowly began to realize that in the entire universe no one knew of its existence.  Of the billions of people on earth I was the only person that would know it had existed.  I was the only person to enjoy its beauty.

My mind began to nibble around the enormity of this wondrous experience.   The singleness of the gift I had been given tore at my heart.   Think of it!  Not another living being in the entire universe will ever see this flower.  I stopped by and looked at it several more times during the day and each time it gave me a warm parental, proprietorial feeling.  I loved it.

Later that evening as it was getting dark I made one last visit to the flower.  It was gone.  A grasshopper was still clinging to the stem.  The sense of sadness that at first gripped me soon left.  The flower was gone as would be the grasshopper in its time and as will I in mine.  However, to this day that beautiful flower and its wonderful gift still live on in my memory.  The joy it gave me answered  the question I had asked the flower “What are you doing in a place like this?”  As to the question, “Where in the world did you come from?”  Well………

Kim Warren

THE COCKROACH
 The cockroach plays a part in nature and has the same right to live as do all creatures.  But not in my house!

In 1980 my wife, three children, dog windy and myself had a nice little home on Circle Dr. in Winnsboro, Texas.  We were very happy and secure with our lives, until the morning I heard Carolyn yell from the kitchen.  She had gone in for her first cup of coffee and saw a cockroach run under the refrigerator.  It disappeared from sight and then from our thoughts.

The next day we saw another one in the cabinet where we keep our cereal.  I say another one, but it could have been the same one.  They all look alike to me.  Anyway, very slowly their numbers increased and encounters became more frequent.  I turned to passive home remedies in the hope they would leave.  None of them worked.

We became afraid to walk in a dark room or open a cabinet door and began finding them in our food.  The cockroaches were taking over our home and lives. 

I turned to the last resort.  The pest control man came in and sprayed our house.  The cockroaches were gone and our home was restored to us, but there was no elation, only relief tempered with sadness.

Kim Warren

A SPECIAL PLACE
It doesn’t matter if you are a woman or a man.  Nor does it matter what you are doing.  It just so happens that in these cases it is a young woman with her violin and an older man with his guitar.  Both of these people appear to be normal pleasant people.  You would never suspect what was hidden inside them.
 
The casually dressed young woman was slouching in a recliner at our house with her feet tucked under her.  There was no evidence of makeup and her hair had received minimal attention.  We had been engaged in pleasant conversation enjoying each other’s company for about an hour.  At her feet lay a violin case.  My wife asked if she would play for us. She responded with a “Sure” and unwound from the recliner picking up the violin case as she stood.  Opening it she pulled out a music stand and set it up then got out her violin.  We continued to chat while she checked its tuning.
 
Satisfied she said, “I play mostly classical” and settled the violin under her chin.  She took a breath like a deep sigh and began to play. Her posture became erect and poised and her face glowed as if she had put on makeup.  I no longer noticed her casual clothing. She maintained this composure through three songs.  Upon finishing the last song she stood frozen for a second.  Then lowering the violin looked up at us with a smile and just a hint of surprise as if to say, “Oh, hi, where have you been?” I think she had gone to a special place filled with the magic of music.

I’ve known the older man for many years.  He and his wife had come up from Texas to visit and since my son and his family were gone for the summer they were staying in his house.  One afternoon I went next door to check on them and as I walked in I heard a guitar.  The older man was sitting on the couch restringing one a neighbor had loaned him.  I knew that for many years, as a hobby, he had been playing in a “Rock and Roll” band, but I had never heard him play.  When he had finished tuning it I asked him to play something for me.  He said, “Well, I don’t know about this old guitar, but I’ll give it a try.”

He brought a stool out to the center of the living room floor and settled himself on it.  Propping the guitar on his knee he picked a little while deciding what to play.  Making his decision he began.  It was an intense song from the 60’s.  He curled his body over the guitar and gripped it tightly.  His face became contorted as he strained out the words.  It appeared his playing and singing required great physical effort. The performance went on for several songs.  When he had finished he dropped his guitar supporting leg and stood up with a self-satisfied look on his face as if awaiting applause. I believe he had been to a place he loves.

  I have a special place also.  My imagination lives there.  It’s where I keep all my “me’s.”  I hope you have one too.  It’s a great place to hangout.

Kim Warren 

SIMPLE, IT'S ABOUT SURVIVING.

Carolyn and I had arrived at our hunting concession, Coutada 5, in central Mozambique on the Indian ocean, at the end of the monsoon season.  The drive from the capital of Maputo had taken two and a half nightmarish rainy days and three of my four spare tires.  The road is narrow and filled with rim splitting potholes.  We were exhausted, but our Land Rover was packed and stacked with supplies that had to be unloaded and our camp set up on the bank of the Muari river, with some degree of order before we could get any sleep.

The next morning the rains had stopped. As we went through the supplies we discovered the case of twenty-four rolls of toilet paper were soaked.  In fact everything made of paper or cardboard was soaked.  What a mess we faced.  Life in the bush had different priorities than city life.  Going to the "toilet" became an experience in botany as we learned which leaves to use.

As I said, our campsite was about fifty yards form the Muari river.  I selected a spot under a large mopane tree to set up our tent.  Next to it was an old termite mound, about the size of a double garage.  It was covered with thick vegetation and several large trees making it impenetrable, except for the monkeys and mambas.  Behind us, the other side of the mopane tree, was a small depression.  This was to be our garden.  Or rather I should say, the baboons garden.   There were also marula trees around us that produce edible fruit.  The baboons made their home in them.  Since one of my jobs was wildlife conservation we were supposed to live in harmony with them.  Not!  People and animals, even the plants, do what they have to do to survive.  Here folks killed, caught, grew or bartered for the essentials of life.  Sometimes it's unpleasant, sometimes illegal and sometimes ugly.

Our first order of survival was to salvage as much as we could of our supplies.  Rolls of toilet paper festooned the trees around us.  This even made us laugh, but the baboons really got a kick out of tearing them apart.  Everything we left sitting in the sun to dry had to be guarded.  We soon discovered that, whether baboon or person, to them stealing was just shopping.  If you weren't guarding it you obviously didn't want it. Once our solar panel was stolen.  The thief sold it to someone in the village of Zimwalla for one million metacais, about $20. He then told me he would tell me where it was for one million metacais.  I went to get it and had to pay the people he sold it to one million metacais to get it back.  The irony is the person I had originally bought it from had stolen it from someone else.

On another occasion we had gone to the town of Beira for supplies.  It is a hard seven hour drive up the coast from our home in the bush.  While there someone stole my toolbox out of the back of our Land Rover.  I went to the huge outdoor market on the edge of town to replace the lost tools.  As I walked along the row of vendors, to my astonishment, I came upon my toolbox.  Nothing was missing and I was able to buy it back at a good price. 

The camp consisted of our sleeping tent, storage tent and gazebo,which served as kitchen, dining, office and ammo reloading area.  After getting it set up I began interviewing and hiring workers.  I hired some for construction of the needed facilities and some to help me in my job of wildlife conservation and anti-poaching.  As Coutada 5 covered over a million acres it was a formidable job.

The construction workers dug a well, built a shower stall, outhouse, a large thatched roof structure for us to gather under and other things like cooking area, tables, chairs, etc.  Everything was made with local materials.   All this to try and make life as comfortable as possible for us.  Mean while they slept on the ground wrapped in ragged blankets under a leadwood tree.  Cooked their mealie mais in one old pot and bathed in the river with the hippos and crocs.

Once things got organized I started patrolling.  I appointed Armando as chief ranger because he had some coveralls and a pair of black rubber boots.  Everyone else wore shower shoes, worn shorts and ragged tee shirts.  Thus equipped we headed out looking for snares, traps and dead falls of the poachers.  I was the only one armed as it was illegal for them to have a firearm.  I also carried my GPS navigator.  I never left camp without it.  It and my .375 H&H rifle and a pistol were my constant companions.

On one occasion I had driven several miles, parked the Land Rover and we headed out on foot to search an area I decided on.  As the sun got low on the horizon I told the men it was time to head back to the Land Rover.  While I turned on my GPS they, as one, turned and started off together in the same direction.  I told them to wait a minute while I get a fix on the truck.  They said "Why?  The Land Rover is over there."  I was completely lost, but they knew exactly where we were.  It was always like that no matter how far we went or how long we were out.

I admit I was naive when I starting sending them out on patrol while I stayed in camp.  It was only after I began to speak their language that I realized they were playing me for the fool.  In this case it was survival of the wittiest.  It turns out they were all poachers.  They would go on patrol and check their snares, traps and dead falls.  Then steal the snares of their competitors and bring them back to me.

An informant blew the whistle on them, so I rounded them all up for a pow-wow.  I explained they had two choices.  1)  Stop poaching and work for me or 2) Keep poaching, get fired and maybe go to jail if I caught them.  All but one elected to stay with me.  In the end they became loyal trustworthy employees.  I didn't hesitate to go off and leave Carolyn alone with any of them to guard her against predators, animal or man.

There were many battles I lost, but the only one I gave up fighting was the illegal making and selling of sura.  Sura is a delightfully tasty, zesty, knock-you-on-your-butt, alcoholic drink made from the common nyalla palm.  It is made by cutting the stalk and draining the greenish yellow liquid into a container.  Then allowing it to ferment a few days to desired potency. Of course you have to skim off the bugs and whatever as you drink it.  Nearly everyone made it, drank it and sold it to towns people.  Trucks would come out from the towns to collection points along highway 1 and buy it by the truck load.   I've spent many a night sitting around their cooking fires with a gourd of sura laughing and talking about the days adventures.

As it turned out just about everyone I knew was, is or would be a poacher.  They can grow all they need, but protein is in short supply.  They needed meat.  I did arrest a few, but in the long run my sympathy was with their need to feed their families.  I would travel to their villages and m'shambas giving lectures on the importance of wildlife conservation.  Then gather the men together and tell them "Don't be stupid and set your snares where I can find them."  I also told them to check their snares regularly and move them often.  Before going on patrol I would be sure someone knew where I was going.  The bush telegraph may not travel at the speed of light, but it sure was faster than my Land Rover.

I had finally learned what they have always known.  Life is simple.  It's about surviving.
Kim Warren

THE VANISHING

As I walked to Delta operations in Dallas I replayed what had happened.  I had just landed Delta Airlines Boeing-727 Flight 57. I had left L.A. that morning on the Early Bird flight heading for Atlanta with stops in Las Vegas and Dallas.  The flight to Las Vegas had been routine.  We then took off, climbing to altitude and leveled off above the desert at Flight Level 370 just as the sun rose above the eastern horizon.  It was blinding so I pulled my sunscreen down and closed my eyes.  The sun was warm on my face making me drowsy.  I must have dozed off for a few seconds.  Awaking with a start I turned to apologize to the other guys and was surprised to see they weren't there.  I was alone in the cockpit.

This was unacceptable, so I called for a flight attendant.  No one answered.  I made a PA asking for one to come forward.  No response.  Making sure the aircraft was safely on autopilot, I got out of my seat, walked back to the cockpit door, and opened it.  The airplane was empty!

In shock, I rushed back and strapped in my seat.  The sky was clear so I could see the desert below and mountains in the distance.   Checking the fuel gauges, I saw they were normal.  Fighting to control my panic I squawked 7700, the emergency code on the transponder and called air traffic control center.  While they were searching for me, I checked my VOR to establish my position.  About the same time center found me, I established my position as 50 miles east of Tuba City, Arizona. I declared an emergency and asked center for clearance direct Dallas. They asked the nature of my emergency.  I stammered, "I-I don't know.  Everything is crazy up here."  They came back with, "Roger, Delta 57, fly heading 095.  Keep us advised."   I continued the flight to Dallas, playing pilot and flight engineer.  Back in my Captain zone the flight, approach, and landing were uneventful.

On my arrival in Dallas, the station manager met me and escorted me to operations. The station manager was just as shocked as I was.  He had no idea what I was doing there.  He took me to the pilot lounge to rest while he contacted the company.

I fell asleep immediately and had a dream.  It was horrible.  I was sitting in my cockpit seat when suddenly an apparition appeared as if it came right out of the aircraft, like St. Elmo's fire.  It was hovering in front of the instrument panel.

The station manager came in and woke me.  I could tell he was nervous as he told me the company was sending some people out from Atlanta, and in the meantime, they wanted him to take me to the hospital for a check-up.  Still in a state of unbelief and shock, I agreed with him and got up. On the way, the station manager asked me to tell him again when I left L.A.  I told him,  "This morning, we pushed back at four o'clock.  The hour meter on the aircraft should confirm my flight time."  Looking at me with a strange look on his face he said, "Your flight has been missing for over a month."

"You're crazy!  I said.  What the hell is going on?"  "Your guess is as good as mine." He replied.  On the way to the hospital the music on the car radio was interrupted by a news bulletin.  "The passengers and crew, with the exception of the Captain, from Delta Air Lines Flight 57 that went missing last month have been found at a highway rest stop near Tuba City, Arizona.  They all appear to be in good health.  Without exception, they all tell the same story.  The last thing they remember is the airplane suddenly being engulfed with what looked like static electricity or St. Elmos Fire, as sailors of old called it."  More to follow...

Marshall Kimbrough-Warren       

FALL IN THE BUSH, A BLESSED TIME

It's hunting season here in southeast Alaska so I took my Winchester M71 for a walk this morning.  The temp was in the low 50's with a  breeze blowing causing the yellow-gold cottonwood leaves to sing their fall song and make a beautiful contrast with the blue-green spruce forest.  My 75 years melted away and I felt young and vigorous again.  My knees gave me a bit of trouble, but that didn't stop me feeling alive and full of life.

Thankfully I wasn't tempted to shoot anything.  Now days I enjoy just watching the moose and bear preparing for winter.  The moose fill up on willows and the bear gorge themselves on salmon that have come up river to spawn.  The squirrels are scampering around collecting spruce cones.  They store them in rubble mounds at the base of the trees where generations of squirrels have dropped the remains of cones they have shredded to get at the nut like seeds.

The sand hill cranes have left.  They're heading for places like the wheat farm in west Texas where we used to live.  Clouds of them would arrive there and glean the freshly harvested fields.  I love hearing them fly over.  We have a painting on our wall of a place near us here in Alaska called crane flats.  It is one of their favorite summering grounds.

Of course, as I mentioned, the salmon are making their run from the open ocean back to their birth rivers.  Right now there is a coho run in the river about a half mile from our house.  It is appropriately named the Salmon river.  Bears, eagles, ravens and gulls are feasting on the coho, storing up fat for the long winter.
   
We humans are preparing for winter also.  Like the wildlife, Carolyn and I have stocked up on salmon.  Unlike them we have the advantage of adding halibut to our diet.  Our garden also supplements our food supply.  We have a good crop of potatoes, carrots, peas and squash.  It provided us with salad greens all summer as well.  Hopefully we will get some moose meat and venison to round things out.  We have a tradition here.  When a moose is killed we help each other pack it out and butcher it, dividing the meat between us.
 
I love Alaskan life.  So different from the lower 48.  Life here seems more real to me.  Wood, water, dirt, animals, birds, fish, real things.  Not imitation.  No plastic pink flamingos in yards here.

Kim Warren

DEATH OF A SEAGULL

On a lonely stretch of beach I stand.  There before me lies a seagull in the sand.
I watched him as he tried to fly.  In vain he struggled, his eyes set upon the sky.
  I  wondered how his life had been.  What had brought him to this end?
Kneeling beside him on the beach, into his mind I tried to reach.
 Fixing me in his baleful stare; somehow he knew I really did care.
  I said “Watching you soar has been one of my pleasures, as you searched the sea for your life’s treasures.
 Now how can I help you my friend, for surely you know that this is the end.”
 Lifting him gently I brushed of the sand.  Then suddenly I began to understand.
No more will his wings lift him to a soaring height.
  No more over a fish will he squabble and fight.
  Never again will he take a mate; for death on this lonely beach is his fate.
Then thru his eyes I looked around, far below me was the ground!
  Winging higher and higher we flew out to sea.  The waves rolling and crashing reached up for me.  Swooping and circling we flew back to the land, alighting again upon the sand.
“Thank you my friend,” said he, “for one last flight out over the sea.”

Kim Warren

"THOSE WERE THE DAYS MY FRIEND, I THOUGHT THEY'D NEVER END"

That's a 1976 Harley Electra Glide with a genuine Harley sidecar.  It was Carolyn's ride.  I had a Harley Low Rider.  At this time of our life I was a First Officer on the Lockheed 1011 for Delta Air Lines and as the photo shows Carolyn was a beautiful motorcycle Mamma.  Our children, Dev age 12, rode on the back with me.  Kelly, age 10 and Christy, age 4 rode in the sidecar with Carolyn.  And yeah, we were cool.  

Kim Warren

MOOSE SEASON

Opening day here in my part of Alaska.  I spent five hours today sitting under a spruce tree visiting with the local wildlife.  Three moose cows and a bull dropped by to see what a man was doing sitting under a spruce tree in the middle of nowhere.  One cow brought her calf over to my blind so it could see what a human looked like.  The calf wasn't very impressed.  Another of the ladies came by all decked out in a red necklace ready to party.  She spend twenty minutes rubbing on a small spruce tree, not fifteen feet from me, trying to get it off.  I took some pictures of her.  She was fairly irritated by the collar and upon seeing me, tried to get in my lap.  I jumped up and poked her with my rifle barrel to stop her.  She wouldn't leave me alone so I finally had to leave for fear of having to shoot her.  Maybe tomorrow.  Here are a few pictures I took today.  Weather was great.  Bear and wolf seasons are open also.  So far I've seen more bears in my carport than I have out hunting.  Hard to shoot a bear sitting on my porch begging for food.  Last fall we saw a pack of seventeen wolves, but none yet this season.  I'll keep you posted on how the hunt goes.  By the way, these pictures were taken just a short drive from my house.

Kim Warren

THEM!

Even as a child I suspected the presence of Them.  I remember playing outside at night,  the crickets would stop chirping, the breeze would lay,  stillness enveloped the night and a fear would come over me.  I now know it was Them watching me.  (In the interest of clarity I will sometimes use the subjective pronoun "They" in reference to Them.)
It wasn't until my teenage years when the movie "THEM!" came out that I knew Their name.  Many times since I have been aware of Them watching me.  However, I have come to realize not many people know about Them, so I'm reluctant to bring Them up in conversation.  They live in wooded areas and are so secretive as to be virtually invisible to the human eye, but animals can see Them.  When your dog barks without apparent reason, it's Them.  Or their hair stands up and they growl that low growl, it's Them.  Your cat will disappear for hours in some dark place because of Them.
When I was a paratrooper in the army, manning a listening post or point man on patrol, I would occasionally catch a vague movement out of the corner of my eye and know it was Them  watching me.  Or on our land in Texas, while sitting on the patio, our dogs would suddenly stop and stare at the tree line, hair up, I knew it was Them watching me.  Often, while hunting, I will feel the need to turn around and look behind me or look in a particular direction.  This is my sixth sense warning me of Them.  Use see,  looking at Them stops Them.  I shudder to think what would happen if one of Them got to close.
Think back on your walks in the woods when the forest would suddenly go quiet.  It gave you an eerie feeling didn't it.  The birds and animals, even the very forest itself, could see Them  watching you.  There was a time when I was a little boy I think I had Them under my bed and sometimes, if I left the closet door open, even in my closet.  During thunderstorms, I believe I caught a glimpse of Them looking in my window.
I can remember occasions when I was chased by Them.  Coming home one night from a friends house I felt Them  following me.  I was afraid to look behind me (That was before I knew you had to look at Them) and broke into a run.  They were right on my tail all the way home.  By the time I burst through the front door I could feel Them just one step behind me.  That was one of my closest calls with Them.  Another time I was swimming with friends in a pond.  Suddenly my sixth sense told me there was one of Them behind me under the water, swimming for my life I just barely made it to the bank.  I yelled a warning to the other boys and they all fled the water in panic.  Thankfully my warning saved us from Them.
Then there was the time I made the mistake of bring Them up with the real estate agent that was going to list our farm in Texas for sale.  My son, his wife, Carolyn and I  were sitting on the patio while she, the agent, asked a bunch of questions about our house for listing purposes.  She had finished so we were just chatting when my attention was drawn to the tree line.  I suddenly felt Them watching us, so I asked my son if we should tell her about Them.  She asked, "Who?"  I replied "Them" motioning to the tree line, "out there."  Looking around she said "I don't see anyone."  I told her "Of course not, nobody can see Them, They live out there in the woods, always watching, waiting. "  She was becoming visible nervous, I could tell she felt Them too.  At this point my son broke in and said "Knock it off Dad."  Then turning to the real estate lady said " Don't pay any attention to my Dad, he's just pulling your leg."  But I know she felt Them watching.  As it turned out it didn't matter, my son ended up using another agent.
  I leave you with this warning, when you feel Them watching, always look!  Don't let THEM get to close.
Kim Warren

AFRICA AFTER DARK

In central Mozambique, where Carolyn and I lived, there is no twilight.  At sunset day simply turns to night.  For us Africa after dark was as interesting as the day.  

To appreciate our life in the bush it's necessary for you to know how we lived.  Our house was a round thatched roof shelter twenty-five feet in diameter with a four-foot mud wall around the perimeter, four openings, and a dirt floor.  We had reed mats all the way around the house that rolled down as needed to keep the wind and rain out.  Attached to the back of the house was the kitchen, a ten by fifteen-foot rectangular shelter built like the rest of the house.  For sleeping quarters we had a twelve feet in diameter version of the house, separated from it by a covered walk, its wall was head high for privacy, with an open entrance, no door.  In it was our mosquito net covered bed. 

The main house was our living and eating area, with the dining table in the center, a half dozen camp chairs and hand made end tables around the wall.  We had three 12V light bulbs, one over the kitchen counter, one in the peak of the main house and one over our bed in the sleeping hut.  We also had a TV set and cassette player so we could show movies, which we did from time to time, and listen to music in the evenings.   Carolyn did the cooking over an open fire and the baking in a mud-brick oven, both located out back. 

Africa after dark is a different world than Africa of the day.  After dark, the predators go on the prowl.  Your mind may immediately think of leopards, lions, hyenas, things with big claws and teeth, and of course they do, but they aren't the real terror of the night.  The real terror, or in our case entertainment, was the flying, crawling, jumping, stalking, bugs, spiders, lizards, centipedes, scorpions, bats, etc., etc.  And I do mean etc.

In fact, we had as guests for several days, three people from the Natural History Museum in Pretoria, South Africa, that came to study the insects.  At night they would hang a white sheet backlit with a bright light to attract them.  I promise you would not believe the incredible numbers and variety of insects that sheet attracted.  Months later when we visited them at the museum they told us they had indeed found two unclassified species of beetle there.  Now, imagine what the outside of our mosquito net looked like as we lay in bed at night reading.  The net was literally covered with insects.  Ever see the movie Raiders of the Lost Ark? I'm not kidding when I say the noise was so loud, with all the buzzing, whirring, and clicking, it was nearly impossible to talk to each other. 

We ate our evening meal while it was still light out, then after dinner strolled around, just looking the place over or visiting with some of the workmen.  Then as it grew dark I would turn on the lights in the kitchen, for Carolyn to clean up, and in the main house.  This is when the action started.

At first, the crawling bugs came out, then flying insects, next came the frogs and lizards.  Everybody was looking for food.  The insects stalked each other and the frogs and lizards stalked the insects.  Every night when Carolyn did the dishes bugs would collect around her light and on the counter.  Out of nowhere the lizards appeared for the feast.  Over time they became so tame that Carolyn would hand feed them.  This relationship developed between us and all the little critters, even the frogs would hop over to us looking for a handout.  At first light, birds would come in and police up the dead or those that stayed up too long.

One of our favorites was the Fast Eddies.  These three-inch spiders moved like lightning and looked like something out of a B horror movie.  They would zip around on the floor between our legs and over our feet while ravaging the bug members of our extended family.  Fast Eddies were so fast they were impossible to kill.  We spent many an evening with our feet up in the chair watching the drama going on around us.

By and large, we left them alone and they didn't bother us.  There were, however, two exceptions.  The great long black centipedes and the four-inch scorpions.  Either of these would provoke an instant response from us, KILL, man we hated those things. On the other hand one of our favorite family members, aside from the lizards, was Alfredo the single bat that showed up every evening and stayed until we went to bed.  Round and round it would fly, sometimes almost brushing our hair as it protected us from the mosquitoes.  Fred the bat would make circles until it was winded, then hang from the ceiling, tongue out panting, until it caught its breath, then round and round again. 

 The other favorite was cappie.  The little white-capped bird that would join us for coffee every morning and feed on the night's leftovers.  We became close to cappie and enjoyed his ease around us.  One morning when he didn't show I went out to look for him and found his body.  I have no idea what killed him.  There are a lot of ways to die in Africa after dark.  

One morning we walked into the living area for our first cup of coffee and saw movement on the dining table.  On closer examination, we found a dozen or so tiny baby lizards, the size of my little fingernail  They were baby geckos.  For a week we tiptoed around and sat down carefully for fear of hurting one.    At meals, they would sit on the edge of our plates nibbling at our food.  Then one morning they were gone, with not so much as a thank you.  That's kids for you. 

Flying ants were among our least favorite neighbors.  I have a picture of Carolyn during the monsoon, the M'uari river had flooded its banks and our compound.  It was dark out and Carolyn was standing ankle deep in running water cooking spaghetti by lantern light when a huge swarm of flying ants descended.  They were in the spaghetti, in her hair, mouth, and nose, but she stood her ground and continued to stir the spaghetti sauce.  I grabbed the lantern and tried to lure them away, didn't happen, so I turned off the light and she finished cooking in the dark.  That night we ate spaghetti a la flying ants.  They were still swarming when we finally retreated to the safety of our sleeping hut.  I married a winner!   

We had another flying friend, Bubba the bumblebee.  I don't know where he came from or why he was there.  This was before we built our house and were living in a tent.  The tent sat between a termite mound, the size of a small house, and the M'uari river.  The mound was covered with trees and thick undergrowth.  Several feet from our sleeping tent was a gazebo Carolyn cooked under.  (Site of the flying ant swarm)  Bubba flew back and forth in front of our tent from the termite mound to the gazebo in a straight line.  Every day from first light until late morning, back and forth he would fly.  If any other flying thing, bird or insect approached, he would chase it off.  Just for fun, I would stand in his line of flight, at which time he would hover right in front of my face looking me over until I moved, and then continue his vigil.  This went on for weeks until we had to leave for several days. When we got back he was gone, never to return.   

Africa after dark was a great experience.  During our time there we were blessed to be immune to the bites, stings, and injury that most experience.  It tickles me to think how, when living with the natural world as we did, everybody accepted us, from bumblebees to bats, spiders to scorp--, well, never mind them. 

Kim Warren   

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Kim Warren   

CACADORES FURTIVOS!

(POACHERS!)
I got up at first light and walked around the cleared, hard-packed sand of  Papagaio.  The word is Portuguese for a parrot.  It's the name of our five-acre island compound in the vast mopane forest of central Mozambique.  I was checking for telltale signs of the many mambas, cobras, and pythons that we shared our little corner of Africa with.  I found one and followed it until it disappeared into the thatched roof of our house.  This was a necessary ritual and over time I killed, I think, 16 black mambas, one green mamba, one vine snake and one Mozambique spitting cobra, not counting the mamba Carolyn killed with a spray can of Raid while sitting in the outhouse.  Or the six-inch centipedes or four-inch scorpions or malarial mosquitoes or giant spiders or tsetse flies or the lion around the next termite mound.  Carolyn and I are laughing as I write this because it sounds so awful, but it's all true and we loved it.
During my walk, Carolyn made breakfast and then we waited on the workmen to report for duty.  As we sat there the flocks of bright green parrots that lived in the two huge baobab trees in front of our house took flight heading into the forest that surrounded us.  They left at the same time every morning, returning at the same time every evening.  Baboons started their morning squabbling, occasionally a warthog or bushpig would grunt in alarm,  and the wonderful doves started cooing their song of Africa that I so loved.
The two baobab trees measured thirty-five and thirty-seven feet in circumference and were home to a variety of life, including beehives.  Their white flowers are almost a foot in diameter and so full of moisture that their weight causes them to fall to the ground like wet sponges, often waking us in the night.
We lived in the middle of a 7000 square kilometer hunting concession named Coutada 5.  It is located in the District of Machanga, Sofala Province, Mozambique, Africa and is bordered by the Indian Ocean on the east, the Gorongoza river on the north, the Rio Save on the south and stretches halfway to Zimbabwe in the west, thus comprising nearly all the District of Machanga.
When the civil war ended in 1992, this concession had been given to an Italian newspaper reporter that had written favorably for the winning team.  At the time of this story, the war had been over for ten years.  However, evidence of the war was still around in the form of ruined towns, the occasional burned-out tank and worst of all, the minefields, many of which were still unmarked.  In some areas, one would occasionally hear booms in the night as some unfortunate man or animal stepped on one.  The Italian gentleman had called me in to protect the flora and fauna.  My job was to help reestablish the fauna bravia (wildlife) and stop the cacadores furtivos,  poachers.  I was also the resident licensed Professional Hunter.  The government wanted me to help them stop the bush fires that raged every year; an impossible task.
As we set there enjoying the morning and just being in Africa, a man rode into Papagaio on a motorbike.  "Bon dia."  He said.  Handing me the authorization he told me that a hippo was being a nuisance and needed to be killed.  "Onde?" I asked him.  "En un lagoa perto de Javane."  He replied.  So the government wanted me to kill a hippo that was tearing up folks m'shambas (farms).  It was in a lagoon near the village of Javane.   Javane es duas horas por Land Rover.  Oh, sorry,  Javane is two hours by Land Rover.
Most people don't realize that hippos kill more Africans than any other animal, rivaled only by crocodiles.  They are extremely aggressive and dangerous, to say nothing of BIG.  The fact that this hippo would supply the people of Javane, who are lacking in protein, with meat for weeks, of course, didn't enter into it.  In time I was to feed two more villages in like manner.
I thanked him and served him a beer while he chatted with Armando, my head tracker, and I.  Waving over one of the men I told him to fill up the tank on the officials Honda 125.  This man was the district game warden.  Yet the government was so poor he had no personnel or money, not even for gas.  I then said to him, "Deixaremos a manha."  (We'll leave in the morning)  As he was leaving on his torturous four-hour ride back to Machanga I slipped 200,000 meticais, about $10, into his hand and said, "Give my regards to your family and buy something for your kids."  I was his "boots on the ground" for the District of Machanga.
Luis came walking into the clearing, a shriveled up old black man with fierce eyes, he could snatch up a fifty-pound bag of rice, plop it down on his head and walk all day.  "E agora?"  I thought.  (What now?)  I greeted him with, "Bon dia, Luis, e ai?"  (Good morning, Luis, what's up?)  "Nos temos un problema, Patrao.  (We have a problem, Boss)  "Ha' un fantasmo branco no mato.  As pessoas tem medo." He said. (There is a white ghost in the bush.  The people are afraid)
Luis and his family are semi-nomadic, mainly because he is a poacher and boot-legs sura.  An alcoholic drink made from the n'llala palm.  It's supposed to be against the law, but I would have to arrest every man in the district if I were to enforce it.  Luis also sells poached meat to the roadside vendors.  Since he is old and his family so poor and sells such small amounts of both I just threaten him, then look the other way pretending not to be able to catch him.  So we have a symbiotic relationship.  He in return keeps me in the bush telegraph loop.  
The truth is, people are in need of meat.  So if a man is poaching to feed his family I give him a warning, confiscate his snares and destroy his traps.  Through Luis and others, I let the word slip out "Don't be stupid.  Set your snares in out of the way places so I can't find them," and for them to do the same where they're making sura.  The real problems lie with those we called the "meat mafia."  There are two kinds.  The first comes by night in pickups.  Using spotlights they kill a truckload and sell the meat in the cities of Beria or Maputo.  The second group infiltrates our area on foot from Chimoio near the Zimbabwe border.  Numbering a hundred or so they fan out and set snares and traps at every likely spot until they have all they can pack out.  Both of these groups are well organized.
Back to Luis.  The white ghost was a serious matter.  They hold strong beliefs in the spirit world, of both good and evil spirits.  Once when a huge whirlwind was heading towards us Luis dragged me out into the M'auri river and began to fiercely rebuke the whirlwind.  It turned and passed about a hundred yards downstream.  With a satisfied look on his face, he led me back out of the river.
 I told him that I knew of the white ghost.  I explained this sort of spirit would not harm anyone unless they were breaking the law.  Of course, I was the white ghost.  It was my practice to sneak up on their little m'shambas to check on their activities.  I wanted to frighten them a little.  More than once I would have the crosshairs of my rifle scope on someone and they would suddenly turn and look right where I was hiding.  There was no way they could see me.  Yet they knew they were being watched.  These, my neighbors, were of the N'Dau tribe and  I greatly admired their bush living skills.
Luis hung around for a while drinking a Coke and watching Armando make preparations for our mini safari in the morning.  Finally, he walked over to one of the baobab trees and squatted in its shade.
After about thirty minutes he got up and made a point to walk by me.  As he passed he said in a low voice, "Talvez os homens malvados conhecam."(Perhaps bad men know.)  Then he continued on out of sight into the bush.  It took him a while to decide to tell me, but I had been warned.  Somewhere along the track to Javane I would encounter cacadores furtivos.
We got up at first light.  The Land Rover had been loaded the night before with everything except weapons.  Amadi, my Muslim driver/mechanic, would drive, with Armando in the middle and me shotgun.  Armando carried a side by side 12 gauge.  My .375 Holland and Holland rifle, the hippo medicine, was in the back with our gear.  I went into our sleeping hut and pulled a black box from under our bed.  Opening it I got out the 9mm RSA submachine gun with three forty round magazines.  I inserted one magazine in the receiver and put the other two in my bush pants pockets.
I told Carolyn goodbye and leaving Luis 2 in charge of her safety we departed for Javane.  We called him Luis 2 because he was one of three Luis's.  He was trustworthy, dependable, had sufficient physical stature and was well thought of.  He also had several wives, many children and a large m'shamba on the Rio Save.  I would later save his farm from the ravages of hippos.
In fact, Carolyn and I did several community service acts while there.  We bought uniforms and equipment for a school soccer team, brought educational movies to the bush children, bought a corn mill for the people along the Rio Save and had a water well drilled.    In the village of Luido there is a bronze memorial plaque thanking us.
 It was a pleasant drive.  I liked knowing we were hundreds of kilometers from civilization.  We encountered a mother warthog and ten babies high tailing it down the narrow sandy track for several seconds before turning into the thick bush and vanishing.  I spotted a kudu standing in the shade of a marula tree a couple of hundred meters away and a small herd of impalas bounding above the high grass off to our right.  I was pleased the animals were slowly coming back.
After driving an hour we hit the fly belt, a zone controlled by the infamous tsetse fly.  These horrible creatures can flatten themselves as thin as a postcard and are impervious to fly swatter or rolled up magazine.  You must catch them and crush them with your fingernail or some other solid object.  Their bite is a searing burning pain that makes you instantly mad.  For fifteen minutes we fought them off.  Then just as suddenly they were gone.  We were out of the belt.  Fortunately, in our area of Africa, the tsetse doesn't carry sleeping sickness.  Never the less, you simply cannot live where they are active.
By now the sun was well up.  Sweat ran down our faces and stained our shirts.  We slowed down to cross a dry wash, made a left turn up the bank and there it was, a tree lying across the track.  I told Amadi, "De volta agora! (Back up now!)  He rapidly backed us out of the kill zone.  Armando and I rolled out of the Land Rover and took cover while Amadi lay down across the seat.  Armando fired a load of buckshot.  I could hear the pellets rattling through the trees.  Nothing.  Dead silence.  We waited.  Slowly I began to hear the buzz of insects, then an occasional bird call.  Very slowly the bush sounds got back to normal.  Still nothing.
I signaled Armando that I was moving up, cover me.  I worked my way up to the fallen tree.  Nothing.  I waved Armando up and we looked the area over.  Nobody home.  Apparently, cacadores furtivos had blocked the track just to harass us.  For the next thirty minutes, we cleared brush and dragged the tree off the track.  I could feel them watching as we sweated.  It could have been much different had they so chosen.  This is one of the things I love about Mozambique.  Even the bad guys aren't all that bad.
We drove on to Javane without incident.  On arrival, everyone turned out.  You'd a thought we were liberating Paris.  The older kids climbed all over the Land Rover and rode into the village compound.  Women wearing bright colored wraps and head coverings clapped and cheered while the men all tried to shake my hand at once.  I'd never seen so many teeth.  Small children that had never seen a white person were screaming and clinging to their mothers.  Wonderful mayhem.
After things settled down we got organized.  The Regolo(Chief) and some elders led me to the lagoa.  It was a beautiful setting.  The lagoon was about thirty acres surrounded by lush vegetation and small areas of cultivation, a scene right out of a Tarzan movie.  I chased everyone off and set up a shooting position with my .375 H&H and waited.  After about an hour I saw it.  This rogue had left the river and settled here.  It was alone, old and ornery, a dangerous combination for sure.
It took a while, but the hippo finally moved into range, about a hundred and fifty meters away.  All I could see was eyes and ears.  My first shot was a little low skipping just over the hippos head.  It silently disappeared below the surface.  Twenty minutes later it reappeared.  I fired.  The 300 grain solid smashing through the brain.  A perfect shot.  It reared up then disappeared in a spray of water.  Now the wait.  It usually takes about an hour for a dead hippo to bloat and resurface.  Here came the people, knives flashing in the afternoon sunlight.  We waited.  Forty minutes passed and someone yelled, "Ai esta'."  (There it is.)
Two dugouts poled out, tied onto the hippo and towed it into the shallows.  Then as many men as could gather round rolled it to the water's edge and began the job of butchering.  Meat for everyone!  I modestly turned down the offer to be King of the N'Dau, but did stay for a hippo steak and warm beer.
It was dark by the time we got back to Papagaio.  The cooking fires were burning, people were laughing and talking as they ate their evening meal.  Carolyn greeted me as I stepped out of the Land Rover with a warm kiss and a cold drink.  Holding her in my arms I looked up at the southern cross and thought, " E bon estar en casa." (It's good to be home.)

Kim Warren

BATS!

It all started about two weeks ago.  Carolyn and I were lying in bed when a loud fluttering noise woke us.  It was coming from our second floor bedroom window above our heads.  There was  still enough light outside to see the noise was made by bats flying around.  We watched them a few minutes and agreed this was pretty cool.  Death to the mosquitos!  All right!
We continued to hear them on and off for several nights.  Then one evening as I sat in my recliner reading, a movement on the floor caught my eye .  I looked down an there was a bat crawling out from under my chair.  I gently gathered it up and released it outside.  Two mornings later we found a dead bat in the dining area.  We thought the cat must have brought it in.
The next night we were lying in bed reading and a bat started flying around the bedroom.  I went downstairs to get a towel to try and catch it, when I got back upstairs there were now two.  Being a typical Gustavus house  there is an area in the vaulted ceiling of our bedroom that hasn't been trimmed yet.  As I was chasing the bats with  the towel I saw another bat crawl out of a small hole near where the ridge beam enters the wall above our bed.  I got a rag and stuffed it in the hole.
Have you ever seen one of those round wire screens with a handle on it that you put over a skillet to keep grease from popping out?  Well, I got ours from the kitchen and proceeded to play "batminton" with the bats.  I'm sorry to say at this point wildlife conservation was furthest from my mind.  I won.  Wrapping the losers in a paper towl we went back to bed and tried to sleep.
The next morning a friend of ours brought his extension ladder over and checked the eve of our roof.  Sure enough, there was a opening in it.  He beat on the side of the house and could hear the flutter of wings.  We had bats!
I formed a plan.  That night after all the bats had left I would crawl up the ladder and plug the hole.  At 2230 we crept into position.   Nothing.  I got a rubber mallet and climbing up the ladder again banged on the side of the house.  Mind you I'm 76 years old and I was two stories up on this shaky extenion ladder in the dark when the bats came out right in my face.  Since I'm writing this story it's obvious I survived.  However, I think I used up a years supply of battery power in my pacemaker.
Manfully and under complete control I climbed back down the ladder and took up position with Carolyn.  She had been counting the bats as they flew out.  For the next hour we watched bats fly out of the airspace under our roof.  I expected a half dozen, Carolyn maybe a dozen.  We sat there and counted 152 bats before they finally stopped coming out.
Now I went back into action.  Up the ladder again armed with a can of spray foam I filled the hole.  Ha!  Take that!  We retired in confidence.  Bat problem solved.  Flutter, flutter, flutter.  On came the light.  Three bats were cutting didos over our bed.  Out came the batminton racket.  However, feeling the benevolent conquerer I opened the front door and herded them outside.  Stragglers, we thought.
Next night flutter, flutter, flutter.  On came the light.  Four bats, more stragglers, we hoped.  Another game of batminton.  Next morning I rechecked the hole to be sure it was still sealed.  It was.
We're now up to 160 bats.  I can't wait to see what tonight will bring, the score is 8-love.  However, my hope is they have found a nice warm home in your attic.
Kim Warren