Note: My apologies for the longer than expected interlude between chapters 2 and 3. I've been somewhat busy and this story takes some time. Your patience is appreciated.
To my surprise, getting all of our baggage was not the colossal cluster**** that I had envisioned in my head hundreds of times prior to this moment. As an attest to the airline industry, all of our baggage made it over without a problem. After hearing all the horror stories about bows not arriving, or, even worse, arriving in a mangled mess, my level of anxiety escalated quickly as passengers began to trickle out of the baggage claim area. A quick scan of the faces of the few foreigners remaining in the baggage claim area revealed to me that they too were hunters looking for their weapons. My lovely bride could tell that I was beginning to freak out, when she calmly suggested that a query of the airport personnel might be in order to determine the exact whereabouts of my beloved LX.
I brief survey of the personnel lead me to a bright looking African clad in working man’s attire. I asked him where I might find the oversized luggage area, as I had a bow shipped over (simultaneously doing my ****dest to bridge the cultural barrier by drawing an imaginary bow and repeating the words “bow and arrow” several times, in what I now consider to be a somewhat derogatory tone). I quickly realized that my Oscar winning performance was unnecessary, as he mumbled something (which I’m quite certain translated into “stupid American”) and pointed to a heretofore obscure corner of the same general area in which I found myself. I thanked him for his generosity and quickly made my way to the oversized luggage area, while gesturing to my wife that I had it under control.
Within a matter of minutes, I saw a young African pushing a baggage cart triumphantly down the hall. Atop the mass of hard plastic and metallic cases was my SKB, which housed my bow. I was pleased when I opened the case to find that my bow had made the trip no worse for the ware.
After unsuccessfully trying to get my bank card to work at several ATMs (note to self. . . next time tell Bank of America that you’re going to Africa), we decided that we would need to deal with this matter tomorrow, as we were both quite tired.
My wife had made arrangements for a driver to take us to the Hyatt Regency, and we found him waiting for us in the departure area, with a white toothed grin and a sign that read “Simek.”
A short drive through the Johannesburg evening found us in our hotel room. After consuming several glasses of South Africa’s finest red, I fell into a deep slumber, awaiting the birth of a new day in a new country.
The next morning dawned cool and crisp, as we enjoyed a breakfast of strong coffee, fruit, smoked salmon and bread. The rest of the day was spent on a day excursion to a local elephant excursion where we were able to learn about the natural history of African elephants, and snap a few good photos.
The next morning we arose, and, after making a quick trip to the AMEX location to secure some travelers checks, we were picked up by a middle aged woman who was to be our transport to the lodge. The 4-hour drive from Johannesburg to the lodge took us out of the city into some ruggedly beautiful country reminiscent of West Texas. . . .red rocks, sparse grassland, low trees and broken boulders. As we left Johannesburg, the disparity of wealth became obvious. As we made our way out of town, we were driven by what can most aptly be described as shanty towns comprised of thousands of corrugated tin shacks without running water or electricity that many of the urban blacks call home. Although apartheid was no longer the prevailing cultural attitude, it dawned on me that its affects would take man years to be distilled from the country, if it ever was . . .
After falling in and out of fits of drowsiness, several diet cokes and a good four chapters of A.C. Greene’s “A Personal Country”, we found ourselves at the gates of Limcroma Lodge.
No sooner had we entered the gate, I set my eyes on my first African game animals . . .bushbuck, nyala and kudu . . .all cows. I took this as a good sign. As the Toyota van came to a standstill inside the main camp area, we were heartily greeted by three Limcroma employees . . .Magda (a middle aged woman who I came to learn served many roles around camp from office administrator to accountant), Mia (a young country raised female who’s culinary skills with wild game cannot be matched . . .and she’s also an archer), and Kannes (a twenty something Namibian who would not only serve as my guide for the duration of my stay, but, as I later found out, would, during some approximate 57 hours in the blind, would teach me more of practical South Africa than I had gleaned from reading volumes of South African history).
After situating our luggage into our guest house and washing up, we made our way over to the main lodge, where we made short work of lunch (warthog sandwiches and juice). Kannes told me that everyone was out hunting, and asked if we’d like to take a drive around the concessions we’d be hunting for the next few days, as a way of simultaneously unwinding and seeing a bit of the country. Both Denise and I happily agreed, and loaded up in the Land Rover, with camera gear in tow.
Both Denise and I were tickled that Kannes’ feisty young male terrier “Ruger” (whose main purpose was to serve as blood tracker, but also served in various capacities such as molester of local cats, tester of camp cuisine, impala chaser and defender of camp against all sorts of fauna that might try to unwisely wander into our base of operations while in the bush), would be our constant companion on the trip whether it find him situated on the high rack or sleeping on the floor of the blind.
As the cool evening air began to seep into the Limpopo River Valley, game began to show itself. It quickly became evident that Kannes was equally at home in the company of strangers as he was in his native bush. He eagerly and courteously answered the hundreds of questions that I found myself asking as curiosity overtook me. My education began that evening, as he pointed out the beauty of Blackthorn and Acacia trees, how to differentiate a francolin from a partridge, the different vocalizations of blesbok, eland, impala, nyala, and waterbuck, followed up with a brief course in the natural history of the area we would be hunting, bound by the Limpopo, Crocodile and Marico Rivers. Our conversation of Africa was punctuated by the sound of Denise’s Canon, as the shudder worked overtime in an attempt to capture the “magic hour” or our first evening in camp.
By the time we arrived back in camp, the sun had made it’s way to the other side of the world . . .the side from which I was seeking temporary respite. It was not long until I found myself munching on biltong and sipping on a Castle Lager, sitting comfortably around the mythical mopane fire in good company of the other hunters in camp and their guide.
This evening, I made the acquaintance of a group of bowhunters (mother, father and son) from Minnesota who had taken some good animals during the course of their five days there. Also in camp was a middle aged gentleman from Pennsylvania, who, after suffering a significant shoulder injury earlier in life, had chose to go with a crossbow for this trip. From what I understood, he was quite proficient, and had been doing his ****dest to keep the skinners busy. Over the course of the trip, I found myself talking to “Chic” quite a bit, as he relived tales of bowhunting beloved Pennsylvania mountains with his son. I also had the good fortune to meet a fellow Texan in camp . . .Lee. A native of Port Arthur, Lee had decided to make his first trip to Africa on his own . . . largely due to the fact that his hunting partners had decided to drop out at the last minute. In a matter of an hour or so, Lee and I were talking of past hunting trips in Texas, as we both agreed that there was no other place that we’d rather call home.
After an hour or so around the fire, Mia announced that dinner was served. Prior to the meal, as we were all situated around a well set table, Hannes took the time to recognize the arrival of me and Denise, wished us good luck during our time at Limcroma and proclaimed his pleasure with our company. He then recognized each hunters luck that day, before saying a few words of gratitude to the good Lord for the fine meal of smothered blue wildabeast (pronounced vildabeast) that had been walking around the bush a few days prior to our soon to be consumption.
After the meal, the Castles went down smooth as the stress of city life began to seep out of my body. At about 10:30PM, prior to making my way to my guest house, Kannes gave me clear instructions of what the order of the next several days would be. Up at 6AM, breakfast by 7AM, then make our way to the blind for the first of several all days sits around the waterhole. I was in!
I excused myself from the fire and made my way back to the guest house. As the sounds of human voices trailed off, and the sweet scent of blackthorn permeated the African night, in the distance I could hear jackals sounding off . . . . a clear indication that Africa is still Africa, and, at least for the moment, everything that I thought it would be.
I felt nervous and anxious at the same time, and knew sleep would come in only bits and pieces . . .but that was alright . . . .I began to think about the myriad of scenarios that might play out the next day, which lie only a few dark hours ahead. Before long, the jackals called it a night . . .and so did I . . .
To be continued
To my surprise, getting all of our baggage was not the colossal cluster**** that I had envisioned in my head hundreds of times prior to this moment. As an attest to the airline industry, all of our baggage made it over without a problem. After hearing all the horror stories about bows not arriving, or, even worse, arriving in a mangled mess, my level of anxiety escalated quickly as passengers began to trickle out of the baggage claim area. A quick scan of the faces of the few foreigners remaining in the baggage claim area revealed to me that they too were hunters looking for their weapons. My lovely bride could tell that I was beginning to freak out, when she calmly suggested that a query of the airport personnel might be in order to determine the exact whereabouts of my beloved LX.
I brief survey of the personnel lead me to a bright looking African clad in working man’s attire. I asked him where I might find the oversized luggage area, as I had a bow shipped over (simultaneously doing my ****dest to bridge the cultural barrier by drawing an imaginary bow and repeating the words “bow and arrow” several times, in what I now consider to be a somewhat derogatory tone). I quickly realized that my Oscar winning performance was unnecessary, as he mumbled something (which I’m quite certain translated into “stupid American”) and pointed to a heretofore obscure corner of the same general area in which I found myself. I thanked him for his generosity and quickly made my way to the oversized luggage area, while gesturing to my wife that I had it under control.
Within a matter of minutes, I saw a young African pushing a baggage cart triumphantly down the hall. Atop the mass of hard plastic and metallic cases was my SKB, which housed my bow. I was pleased when I opened the case to find that my bow had made the trip no worse for the ware.
After unsuccessfully trying to get my bank card to work at several ATMs (note to self. . . next time tell Bank of America that you’re going to Africa), we decided that we would need to deal with this matter tomorrow, as we were both quite tired.
My wife had made arrangements for a driver to take us to the Hyatt Regency, and we found him waiting for us in the departure area, with a white toothed grin and a sign that read “Simek.”
A short drive through the Johannesburg evening found us in our hotel room. After consuming several glasses of South Africa’s finest red, I fell into a deep slumber, awaiting the birth of a new day in a new country.
The next morning dawned cool and crisp, as we enjoyed a breakfast of strong coffee, fruit, smoked salmon and bread. The rest of the day was spent on a day excursion to a local elephant excursion where we were able to learn about the natural history of African elephants, and snap a few good photos.
The next morning we arose, and, after making a quick trip to the AMEX location to secure some travelers checks, we were picked up by a middle aged woman who was to be our transport to the lodge. The 4-hour drive from Johannesburg to the lodge took us out of the city into some ruggedly beautiful country reminiscent of West Texas. . . .red rocks, sparse grassland, low trees and broken boulders. As we left Johannesburg, the disparity of wealth became obvious. As we made our way out of town, we were driven by what can most aptly be described as shanty towns comprised of thousands of corrugated tin shacks without running water or electricity that many of the urban blacks call home. Although apartheid was no longer the prevailing cultural attitude, it dawned on me that its affects would take man years to be distilled from the country, if it ever was . . .
After falling in and out of fits of drowsiness, several diet cokes and a good four chapters of A.C. Greene’s “A Personal Country”, we found ourselves at the gates of Limcroma Lodge.
No sooner had we entered the gate, I set my eyes on my first African game animals . . .bushbuck, nyala and kudu . . .all cows. I took this as a good sign. As the Toyota van came to a standstill inside the main camp area, we were heartily greeted by three Limcroma employees . . .Magda (a middle aged woman who I came to learn served many roles around camp from office administrator to accountant), Mia (a young country raised female who’s culinary skills with wild game cannot be matched . . .and she’s also an archer), and Kannes (a twenty something Namibian who would not only serve as my guide for the duration of my stay, but, as I later found out, would, during some approximate 57 hours in the blind, would teach me more of practical South Africa than I had gleaned from reading volumes of South African history).
After situating our luggage into our guest house and washing up, we made our way over to the main lodge, where we made short work of lunch (warthog sandwiches and juice). Kannes told me that everyone was out hunting, and asked if we’d like to take a drive around the concessions we’d be hunting for the next few days, as a way of simultaneously unwinding and seeing a bit of the country. Both Denise and I happily agreed, and loaded up in the Land Rover, with camera gear in tow.
Both Denise and I were tickled that Kannes’ feisty young male terrier “Ruger” (whose main purpose was to serve as blood tracker, but also served in various capacities such as molester of local cats, tester of camp cuisine, impala chaser and defender of camp against all sorts of fauna that might try to unwisely wander into our base of operations while in the bush), would be our constant companion on the trip whether it find him situated on the high rack or sleeping on the floor of the blind.
As the cool evening air began to seep into the Limpopo River Valley, game began to show itself. It quickly became evident that Kannes was equally at home in the company of strangers as he was in his native bush. He eagerly and courteously answered the hundreds of questions that I found myself asking as curiosity overtook me. My education began that evening, as he pointed out the beauty of Blackthorn and Acacia trees, how to differentiate a francolin from a partridge, the different vocalizations of blesbok, eland, impala, nyala, and waterbuck, followed up with a brief course in the natural history of the area we would be hunting, bound by the Limpopo, Crocodile and Marico Rivers. Our conversation of Africa was punctuated by the sound of Denise’s Canon, as the shudder worked overtime in an attempt to capture the “magic hour” or our first evening in camp.
By the time we arrived back in camp, the sun had made it’s way to the other side of the world . . .the side from which I was seeking temporary respite. It was not long until I found myself munching on biltong and sipping on a Castle Lager, sitting comfortably around the mythical mopane fire in good company of the other hunters in camp and their guide.
This evening, I made the acquaintance of a group of bowhunters (mother, father and son) from Minnesota who had taken some good animals during the course of their five days there. Also in camp was a middle aged gentleman from Pennsylvania, who, after suffering a significant shoulder injury earlier in life, had chose to go with a crossbow for this trip. From what I understood, he was quite proficient, and had been doing his ****dest to keep the skinners busy. Over the course of the trip, I found myself talking to “Chic” quite a bit, as he relived tales of bowhunting beloved Pennsylvania mountains with his son. I also had the good fortune to meet a fellow Texan in camp . . .Lee. A native of Port Arthur, Lee had decided to make his first trip to Africa on his own . . . largely due to the fact that his hunting partners had decided to drop out at the last minute. In a matter of an hour or so, Lee and I were talking of past hunting trips in Texas, as we both agreed that there was no other place that we’d rather call home.
After an hour or so around the fire, Mia announced that dinner was served. Prior to the meal, as we were all situated around a well set table, Hannes took the time to recognize the arrival of me and Denise, wished us good luck during our time at Limcroma and proclaimed his pleasure with our company. He then recognized each hunters luck that day, before saying a few words of gratitude to the good Lord for the fine meal of smothered blue wildabeast (pronounced vildabeast) that had been walking around the bush a few days prior to our soon to be consumption.
After the meal, the Castles went down smooth as the stress of city life began to seep out of my body. At about 10:30PM, prior to making my way to my guest house, Kannes gave me clear instructions of what the order of the next several days would be. Up at 6AM, breakfast by 7AM, then make our way to the blind for the first of several all days sits around the waterhole. I was in!
I excused myself from the fire and made my way back to the guest house. As the sounds of human voices trailed off, and the sweet scent of blackthorn permeated the African night, in the distance I could hear jackals sounding off . . . . a clear indication that Africa is still Africa, and, at least for the moment, everything that I thought it would be.
I felt nervous and anxious at the same time, and knew sleep would come in only bits and pieces . . .but that was alright . . . .I began to think about the myriad of scenarios that might play out the next day, which lie only a few dark hours ahead. Before long, the jackals called it a night . . .and so did I . . .
To be continued
I Love that Place, can't wait to go back. Seeing Ruger brought back good memories, he was with us, when I killed my Blue Wildebeest Bull...Cool Dog.
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