Bivy
AH senior member
Okay…I’ve been called out for not posting a report of this hunt. Here goes with copy/pastes of Instagram posts:
Pemba:
Pemba is the capital of Cabo Delgado Province, Mozambique. Situated on the Indian Ocean, Kirimizi Hotel provided excellent accommodations at both the beginning and end of our trip.
The food was fantastically Portuguese and dominated by the local catch (prawns, lobster, octopus, marlin, etc.). The espresso was strong enough to shake residual jet lag. And, the beach was empty, the ocean was warm, and the sea life was diverse.
We tip-toed through beds of brittle stars to reach the reef and adjacent sandbar.
The treasure trove of exotic cowries, urchins, sea cucumbers, and a banded sea snake kept us entertained for hours.
Despite Islamic State attacks earlier this year, we felt safe and secure within the confines of the resort and on the beach. However, the influx of refugees from Northern villages and Palma hit like a wave the moment we stepped from the airport. The savagery of the al-Shabab insurgency was evident in the density of amputees in the local population.
Also evident was multi-national sub-Saharan military presence (with US surveillance support) and United Nations security, refugee aid, and medical assistance.
The world is a fucked up place, and most of the First World population is insulated from these issues. The couple minutes of world news attention the Palma attack generated, propagated a hesitancy to travel to this remarkable area of Africa.
We went to Mozambique to hunt one of the last vestiges of wild Africa, but we also went with open eyes and open hearts to embrace whatever we were presented. Pemba was no different than any other Third World city we've visited. The people were warm, inviting, friendly, and optimistic. Fisherman paddled their hand-hewn dhows out to tend nets, kids snuck away to splash and swim while their mother's seined for low tide sea life, and the world continued to turn.
The point is--go to Pemba. We'll be back because theres a lot more exploring yet to do. (Giant Trevally are calling my name)
And, we have unfinished business in Niassa.
Tomorrow we fly into the Reserve...
Arrival Day:
We hopped on a Cessna 206 charter at 8am and 1 hour and 45 minutes later we were wheels down at the Mazeze airstrip within Niassa Special Reserve.
Niassa is a government reserve encompassing over 10 million acres in Northern Mozambique. This 42,700 square kilometer contagious landmass is some of the most intact and pristine wilderness remaining in Africa. The reserve is divided into L Blocks (Lugenda River) and R Blocks (Rovuma River). Some blocks are allocated to hunting operators, while others focus on ecotourism or protection of cultural/ecological significant areas.
We would be hunting R3. Camp was located at the northern edge of the block along the reserve boundary and Mozambique border; the Rovuma River. Across the river was Tanzania.
We settled into camp, checked zero on the .375 H&H and headed out for a drive on Nyati Road that afternoon. Wild areas are full of surprises, and you never know what might appear.
That afternoon we observed baboons, waterbuck, Johnston's impala, klipspringer, Lichtenstein's hartebeest, and Chobe bushbuck.
Despite multiple trips to Africa, I'd only seen one bushbuck in the past. However, this afternoon we spotted several females (ewes) and a few males (rams). When this ram crossed the trail in front of us, we took up pursuit. The fantastically keen eyes of Madala spotted the ram standing in a dense shadowy patch of shrub, vine, and canopy cover. Confident I was looking exactly where he was pointing, I could not spot the ram in the thick undergrowth. Finally, after shifting slightly right, I could make out horns and then head. Obscured by shadow, I followed an imaginary neckline to behind an invisible shoulder. 50 yards later we collected a gorgeous ram with exotic spotting and silky smooth coat.
The crew was excited to have bushbuck meat in camp and I was relieved to break the ice with a good shot. The tone had been set.
We reached camp in time to toast a "Dois M" (Mozambique lager) to the first sunset in the Reserve.
Tomorrow would start off with a bang...
Day 1
We were up at 4:00am. Anticipation for the upcoming day was too much, and we slipped out of bed heading to the verandah for a cup of coffee. The camp came alive around us, a hour slipped by and the horizon began to slowly illuminate. 5:00a.m.--time to head down the road.
We were here to hunt buffalo; Cape buffalo to be exact. For those that aren't familiar, Cape buffalo is one of five subspecies of African buffalo. The others being: Central Savanna buffalo, Western Savanna buffalo, Nile buffalo, and Dwarf Forest buffalo. In total, approximately 900,000 buffalo roam across the continent; similar to the population of elk in North America.
Nearly 10,000 Cape buffalo are estimated to occupy the Reserve, and annually hunting off-take represents ~1% of the population. Quota is allocated to each hunting operator based on population estimates within the hunted block, and additional community-use quota is allocated to villages within the reserve to provide protein and monetary benefit while deterring poaching activity.
The best available science on sustainable-use conservation has steered off-take in these wild areas to focus on old, non-breeding males. From the days of Roosevelt and Hemingway, all the way up to the last decade, many hunters have prized inches of width over age. As a result, younger buffalo, many soft-bossed, were harvested. 'Bosses' are humps of horn located at the top of the skull. While the horn is actively growing these are soft, comprised of densely matted keratin. Upon maturity the keratin hardens into what is referred to as hard-boss.
We had come to Niassa chasing age, not inches. We were looking for character, not score. That first morning we found buffalo, and Rebekah executed a difficult 80 meter frontal shot with perfection. The blood trail was clear, but, having not seen the buffalo expire, all of our followed slow and methodically. The bull ran a 100 meters and had died mid-flight just out of sight. In some ways he was not the bull we were after, just reaching hard bossed and not of advanced age. However, he was Rebekah's first buffalo, taken cleanly, and disappointment was tempered by her infectious smile. Practice made perfect.
Day 2:
The camp staff had made short order of Rebekah's buffalo. Divided amongst the employees, by the time for arrived for morning coffee the bull had been reduced overnight to meat strips hanging all around staff quarters.
We left camp after the sun was up in pursuit of nothing particular. We had 9 days left; no hurry. Rebekah was in pursuit of a Roosevelt sable and I was in pursuit for everything else. 'Everything else' wasn't exactly correct; my concentration was on Niassa wildebeest (more on that later).
We bumped, swayed, and slapped our way down the formerly known 'Suicide Road,' since downgraded to 'Mild Depression' after some rudimentary grading. The grading may have smoothed the road (a little bit), but it did nothing to mitigate for tetse flies. Collectively, Rebekah, Madala, Jose, Cassimo (the trackers), and I slapped, rolled, popped, and discarded these pesky insects as they attacked the Land Cruiser in waves.
After an hour and a half of defending our few precious liters of remaining blood we entered 'Zona Verde.' This green zone was a notably landmark most days. Not only was it a beautiful pan complex opening into a large grassy expanse with scattered shade trees, it seemed to function as a barrier to the tetses. It also was the start of game observations most days.
We turned to the east heading out a few kilometers along a finger of the pan to check a waterhole known as 'Rock Pool.' The team had observed a sable bull there in the previous week that was particularly eye-catching.
Rebekah had dreamed of pursuing a wild, free-roaming sable bull since she first saw one. They are a beautiful antelope with striking black and white markings and arching horns that range from 36-50."
Niassa is within the range of the Roosevelt subspecies. The smallest of the three sable subspecies, they tend to have slightly shorter horns and a reddish tint to the black coat.
We poked around in the pan for a bit. We found sable, hartebeest, and zebra, but not 'the Sable.' But perseverance paid off--we found him. Rebekah once again shot flawlessly and wrapped her hands around nearly three inches of secondary growth representing old, fight-scarred Niassa
royalty
Day 3:
Seasonal shifts in game movement required exploration deeper (south) into the hunting block, away from the most established roads. Aerial imagery disclosed pans, river channels, and probable water sources yet to be explored.
We checked known waterholes for buffalo tracks and eventually stumbled upon a previously unknown residual pool in the Mazeze River channel. There mixed in with leopard, warthog, and other game tracks were the tracks of a lone 'dagga boy.'
A 'Dagga Boy' is a name given to old, post-reproductive buffalo bulls.
Referring to their habit of wallowing in mud (dagga), this old boys typically take to a relatively solitary life, occasionally accompanied by another bull or two.
The track was large and round; indicative of an old bull that wore the pointed tips off his hooves. We decided to take the track.
I toed into the first dung pile we crossed--crusty; not as fresh as we'd like. That was the only way I could age the track. The trackers, Madala, Cassimo, and Jose were far more experienced. They analyzed the spoor for nocturnal insect trails and inspected grass clipped by the bulls hooves for curling from the sun.
After a mile the track freshened. The bull joined another, bedded, fed, and separated. The trackers translated the story with perfection in a combination of bush Portuguese and sign language all hunters understand.
Our pace slowed. We scanned for the slightest movement. Cassimo extended his arm pointing at a songbird trilling in a Marula tree. As my eyes aligned, the bird fluttered down into tall grass ahead. Madala smiled. The two crept forward and waved us close. The bull was there; bedded and oblivious that the oxpecker had deceived him.
The sticks went up and I settled the .375 H&H. This was an old bull, battled scarred and greying from hair loss. It was also one of the most unimpressive buffalo bulls I've seen. Possibly poor genetics, likely a testosterone deficiency, his horns were hard to differentiate from a females. He stood and faced us. We came for an old bull and there he stood sizing us up. He turned and loped away. He wasn't the one we came for and buffalo hunting is too fun to end it on the first track.
Day 4:
Mazeze Springs, the origin of the Mazeze River, was a series of perennial pools with recent, post-fire lush green grass carpeting the corridor. It was a place that held game. The only question--What would we see today?
Hardus had observed a couple old dagga boys there recently, and, while we found their tracks on Day 1, they were from the prior day. The bulls would water again, and persistence would pay off.
We didn't wait long. As we stopped the Cruiser, dropping trackers to walk the corridor for spoor, Rebekah whispered "Buffalo." From the shade trotted two buffalo bulls--old buffalo bulls.
As the miombos swallowed the rearends of the two bulls, I was vaulting off the Cruiser and cycling the .375. The wind was in our favor and the bulls hadn't scented us. The team was optimistic they wouldn't go far.
They didn't and 1/4 mile later I was on sticks waiting for the bulls to walk into a window within a spiderweb on branches similar to a Montana aspen grove. The bulls came, Hardus whispered "the second one," and the bullet entered quartering away ribs. We repositioned and, upon impact of a second round, the buffalo tipped over.
The other bull ran a short semi-circle and returned to the downed bull. With nose in the air he stared through us looking for a danger yet to be visualized. Hardus and I exchanged glances; "Rebekah come"
I handed the rifle to Rebekah and Hardus set the sticks. Catching movement, the bull turned broadside, uncertain of flight or fight. Rebekah's shot hit solid, but the bull trotted away with little reaction. We pursued and a couple misses (hit trees) and a couple more vital hits brought the bull to a standstill. He turned to face us, but without the energy left for a charge. The bull absorbed another frontal shot, stepped forward, and collapsed.
The 12 year-old kid that found Hemingway's Green Hills of Africa in the Manchester Middle School library could have never dreamed up a better buffalo hunt.
Polished bosses, tattered ears, greying bodies, and scars; two ancient, beautiful bulls that walked together in one of the last great wildernesses of Africa. The emotion you ask? Honor and admiration to share in their legacy.
Pemba:
Pemba is the capital of Cabo Delgado Province, Mozambique. Situated on the Indian Ocean, Kirimizi Hotel provided excellent accommodations at both the beginning and end of our trip.
The food was fantastically Portuguese and dominated by the local catch (prawns, lobster, octopus, marlin, etc.). The espresso was strong enough to shake residual jet lag. And, the beach was empty, the ocean was warm, and the sea life was diverse.
We tip-toed through beds of brittle stars to reach the reef and adjacent sandbar.
The treasure trove of exotic cowries, urchins, sea cucumbers, and a banded sea snake kept us entertained for hours.
Despite Islamic State attacks earlier this year, we felt safe and secure within the confines of the resort and on the beach. However, the influx of refugees from Northern villages and Palma hit like a wave the moment we stepped from the airport. The savagery of the al-Shabab insurgency was evident in the density of amputees in the local population.
Also evident was multi-national sub-Saharan military presence (with US surveillance support) and United Nations security, refugee aid, and medical assistance.
The world is a fucked up place, and most of the First World population is insulated from these issues. The couple minutes of world news attention the Palma attack generated, propagated a hesitancy to travel to this remarkable area of Africa.
We went to Mozambique to hunt one of the last vestiges of wild Africa, but we also went with open eyes and open hearts to embrace whatever we were presented. Pemba was no different than any other Third World city we've visited. The people were warm, inviting, friendly, and optimistic. Fisherman paddled their hand-hewn dhows out to tend nets, kids snuck away to splash and swim while their mother's seined for low tide sea life, and the world continued to turn.
The point is--go to Pemba. We'll be back because theres a lot more exploring yet to do. (Giant Trevally are calling my name)
And, we have unfinished business in Niassa.
Tomorrow we fly into the Reserve...
Arrival Day:
We hopped on a Cessna 206 charter at 8am and 1 hour and 45 minutes later we were wheels down at the Mazeze airstrip within Niassa Special Reserve.
Niassa is a government reserve encompassing over 10 million acres in Northern Mozambique. This 42,700 square kilometer contagious landmass is some of the most intact and pristine wilderness remaining in Africa. The reserve is divided into L Blocks (Lugenda River) and R Blocks (Rovuma River). Some blocks are allocated to hunting operators, while others focus on ecotourism or protection of cultural/ecological significant areas.
We would be hunting R3. Camp was located at the northern edge of the block along the reserve boundary and Mozambique border; the Rovuma River. Across the river was Tanzania.
We settled into camp, checked zero on the .375 H&H and headed out for a drive on Nyati Road that afternoon. Wild areas are full of surprises, and you never know what might appear.
That afternoon we observed baboons, waterbuck, Johnston's impala, klipspringer, Lichtenstein's hartebeest, and Chobe bushbuck.
Despite multiple trips to Africa, I'd only seen one bushbuck in the past. However, this afternoon we spotted several females (ewes) and a few males (rams). When this ram crossed the trail in front of us, we took up pursuit. The fantastically keen eyes of Madala spotted the ram standing in a dense shadowy patch of shrub, vine, and canopy cover. Confident I was looking exactly where he was pointing, I could not spot the ram in the thick undergrowth. Finally, after shifting slightly right, I could make out horns and then head. Obscured by shadow, I followed an imaginary neckline to behind an invisible shoulder. 50 yards later we collected a gorgeous ram with exotic spotting and silky smooth coat.
The crew was excited to have bushbuck meat in camp and I was relieved to break the ice with a good shot. The tone had been set.
We reached camp in time to toast a "Dois M" (Mozambique lager) to the first sunset in the Reserve.
Tomorrow would start off with a bang...
Day 1
We were up at 4:00am. Anticipation for the upcoming day was too much, and we slipped out of bed heading to the verandah for a cup of coffee. The camp came alive around us, a hour slipped by and the horizon began to slowly illuminate. 5:00a.m.--time to head down the road.
We were here to hunt buffalo; Cape buffalo to be exact. For those that aren't familiar, Cape buffalo is one of five subspecies of African buffalo. The others being: Central Savanna buffalo, Western Savanna buffalo, Nile buffalo, and Dwarf Forest buffalo. In total, approximately 900,000 buffalo roam across the continent; similar to the population of elk in North America.
Nearly 10,000 Cape buffalo are estimated to occupy the Reserve, and annually hunting off-take represents ~1% of the population. Quota is allocated to each hunting operator based on population estimates within the hunted block, and additional community-use quota is allocated to villages within the reserve to provide protein and monetary benefit while deterring poaching activity.
The best available science on sustainable-use conservation has steered off-take in these wild areas to focus on old, non-breeding males. From the days of Roosevelt and Hemingway, all the way up to the last decade, many hunters have prized inches of width over age. As a result, younger buffalo, many soft-bossed, were harvested. 'Bosses' are humps of horn located at the top of the skull. While the horn is actively growing these are soft, comprised of densely matted keratin. Upon maturity the keratin hardens into what is referred to as hard-boss.
We had come to Niassa chasing age, not inches. We were looking for character, not score. That first morning we found buffalo, and Rebekah executed a difficult 80 meter frontal shot with perfection. The blood trail was clear, but, having not seen the buffalo expire, all of our followed slow and methodically. The bull ran a 100 meters and had died mid-flight just out of sight. In some ways he was not the bull we were after, just reaching hard bossed and not of advanced age. However, he was Rebekah's first buffalo, taken cleanly, and disappointment was tempered by her infectious smile. Practice made perfect.
Day 2:
The camp staff had made short order of Rebekah's buffalo. Divided amongst the employees, by the time for arrived for morning coffee the bull had been reduced overnight to meat strips hanging all around staff quarters.
We left camp after the sun was up in pursuit of nothing particular. We had 9 days left; no hurry. Rebekah was in pursuit of a Roosevelt sable and I was in pursuit for everything else. 'Everything else' wasn't exactly correct; my concentration was on Niassa wildebeest (more on that later).
We bumped, swayed, and slapped our way down the formerly known 'Suicide Road,' since downgraded to 'Mild Depression' after some rudimentary grading. The grading may have smoothed the road (a little bit), but it did nothing to mitigate for tetse flies. Collectively, Rebekah, Madala, Jose, Cassimo (the trackers), and I slapped, rolled, popped, and discarded these pesky insects as they attacked the Land Cruiser in waves.
After an hour and a half of defending our few precious liters of remaining blood we entered 'Zona Verde.' This green zone was a notably landmark most days. Not only was it a beautiful pan complex opening into a large grassy expanse with scattered shade trees, it seemed to function as a barrier to the tetses. It also was the start of game observations most days.
We turned to the east heading out a few kilometers along a finger of the pan to check a waterhole known as 'Rock Pool.' The team had observed a sable bull there in the previous week that was particularly eye-catching.
Rebekah had dreamed of pursuing a wild, free-roaming sable bull since she first saw one. They are a beautiful antelope with striking black and white markings and arching horns that range from 36-50."
Niassa is within the range of the Roosevelt subspecies. The smallest of the three sable subspecies, they tend to have slightly shorter horns and a reddish tint to the black coat.
We poked around in the pan for a bit. We found sable, hartebeest, and zebra, but not 'the Sable.' But perseverance paid off--we found him. Rebekah once again shot flawlessly and wrapped her hands around nearly three inches of secondary growth representing old, fight-scarred Niassa
royalty
Day 3:
Seasonal shifts in game movement required exploration deeper (south) into the hunting block, away from the most established roads. Aerial imagery disclosed pans, river channels, and probable water sources yet to be explored.
We checked known waterholes for buffalo tracks and eventually stumbled upon a previously unknown residual pool in the Mazeze River channel. There mixed in with leopard, warthog, and other game tracks were the tracks of a lone 'dagga boy.'
A 'Dagga Boy' is a name given to old, post-reproductive buffalo bulls.
Referring to their habit of wallowing in mud (dagga), this old boys typically take to a relatively solitary life, occasionally accompanied by another bull or two.
The track was large and round; indicative of an old bull that wore the pointed tips off his hooves. We decided to take the track.
I toed into the first dung pile we crossed--crusty; not as fresh as we'd like. That was the only way I could age the track. The trackers, Madala, Cassimo, and Jose were far more experienced. They analyzed the spoor for nocturnal insect trails and inspected grass clipped by the bulls hooves for curling from the sun.
After a mile the track freshened. The bull joined another, bedded, fed, and separated. The trackers translated the story with perfection in a combination of bush Portuguese and sign language all hunters understand.
Our pace slowed. We scanned for the slightest movement. Cassimo extended his arm pointing at a songbird trilling in a Marula tree. As my eyes aligned, the bird fluttered down into tall grass ahead. Madala smiled. The two crept forward and waved us close. The bull was there; bedded and oblivious that the oxpecker had deceived him.
The sticks went up and I settled the .375 H&H. This was an old bull, battled scarred and greying from hair loss. It was also one of the most unimpressive buffalo bulls I've seen. Possibly poor genetics, likely a testosterone deficiency, his horns were hard to differentiate from a females. He stood and faced us. We came for an old bull and there he stood sizing us up. He turned and loped away. He wasn't the one we came for and buffalo hunting is too fun to end it on the first track.
Day 4:
Mazeze Springs, the origin of the Mazeze River, was a series of perennial pools with recent, post-fire lush green grass carpeting the corridor. It was a place that held game. The only question--What would we see today?
Hardus had observed a couple old dagga boys there recently, and, while we found their tracks on Day 1, they were from the prior day. The bulls would water again, and persistence would pay off.
We didn't wait long. As we stopped the Cruiser, dropping trackers to walk the corridor for spoor, Rebekah whispered "Buffalo." From the shade trotted two buffalo bulls--old buffalo bulls.
As the miombos swallowed the rearends of the two bulls, I was vaulting off the Cruiser and cycling the .375. The wind was in our favor and the bulls hadn't scented us. The team was optimistic they wouldn't go far.
They didn't and 1/4 mile later I was on sticks waiting for the bulls to walk into a window within a spiderweb on branches similar to a Montana aspen grove. The bulls came, Hardus whispered "the second one," and the bullet entered quartering away ribs. We repositioned and, upon impact of a second round, the buffalo tipped over.
The other bull ran a short semi-circle and returned to the downed bull. With nose in the air he stared through us looking for a danger yet to be visualized. Hardus and I exchanged glances; "Rebekah come"
I handed the rifle to Rebekah and Hardus set the sticks. Catching movement, the bull turned broadside, uncertain of flight or fight. Rebekah's shot hit solid, but the bull trotted away with little reaction. We pursued and a couple misses (hit trees) and a couple more vital hits brought the bull to a standstill. He turned to face us, but without the energy left for a charge. The bull absorbed another frontal shot, stepped forward, and collapsed.
The 12 year-old kid that found Hemingway's Green Hills of Africa in the Manchester Middle School library could have never dreamed up a better buffalo hunt.
Polished bosses, tattered ears, greying bodies, and scars; two ancient, beautiful bulls that walked together in one of the last great wildernesses of Africa. The emotion you ask? Honor and admiration to share in their legacy.
