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