SRvet
AH enthusiast
Day One: Arrival
Johannesburg struck me with the familiar tang of heat and diesel, the scent of Africa’s welcome-home handshake. I was met by Frank from Africa Sky, a man whose casual competence suggested he’d seen it all before and knew better than to comment on the baggage of wide-eyed hunters. At the police office, Gilbert moved with bureaucratic ease, and before I could finish my complimentary bottle of water, my rifles were in the car and we were off.
We made a quick detour through Lindwood Bridge’s Safari & Outdoors, a glittering armory for modern Nimrods. Like a child loosed in a chocolate shop, I exercised remarkable restraint—purchasing only what I absolutely didn’t need—and then we hit the tar toward Sabrisa.
The reunion with Chris and Sabina was heartening. It had been three years, but Africa doesn’t forget its own. I met the staff again: Sammy, the silent-footed scout; Kate, who wielded hospitality like a weapon; and Ephraim, a new helper whose quiet energy hinted at deeper layers that still needed to be discovered.
We zeroed rifles before sundown. The .375 H&H sang true. The .458 Lott needed two clicks down—an adjustment of no consequence but great satisfaction. A shower rinsed off the dust, and we convened around a Braai that would’ve made Bacchus weep: chicken wings crisped to perfection, sausage and steak thick enough to terrify cardiologists, all washed down with red wine from a bottle that didn’t last long enough. A G&T by the fire followed. Life was good. Even liberating a squirrel from my room (clearly impressed by my gear) didn’t disturb the mood.
Sunday: Buffalo Day
Up at 0545 after the kind of deep, clean sleep only found on African soil. Breakfast was light—we were still metabolizing last night’s feast—and then we transferred to a neighboring concession in pursuit of Syncerus caffer, the African buffalo, that bovine embodiment of malice and menace.
The bush was thick, visibility brief and conversations briefer. We saw giraffe, kudu, impala, warthog, and baboon. But the real action came when we nearly walked into a cow and calf. The wind betrayed us, as it does, and we backtracked.
Then he showed. A bull—big, brutish, and brimming with belligerence—crossed ahead of the truck. We saw him again while Sammy was checking spoor, which gave rise to a moment of African comedy as he leapt back aboard the truck faster than a Springbok dodging a lion.
Lunch back at Sabrisa was predictably spectacular. A nap on the veranda followed by a call home reminded me that my family still assumed I was mostly sane.
Back out by 1430. While investigating old tracks, we spotted a herd of 12 buffalo. Dense brush gave us cover for a stalk. One old cow, quartering toward me at 50 meters, presented herself for judgment.
The .458 Lott, stoked with 420g CEB Raptors screaming out at 2350fps, barked once. A solid hit. But then an unseen calf ran out, and chaos ensued. Chris yelled to shoot again, but she vanished into the bush before I could bolt another round.
No death bellow.
We waited. Cigarettes. Reloaded: another Raptor and 450g solids behind it. Then the dogs—DT and the GSP—were unleashed. What followed was quintessential Africa: heat, tension, and the scent of old blood.
Then, Sammy pointed to fresh blood-crimson, arterial and copious.The barking shocked us—DT had her at bay. We ran, freezing on two occasions when we heard her crashing towards us yet the charge did not come.
There she was. A dark shape hulking over the courageous DT in the gloom. Chris fired, I fired four times at the front half of the dark shape and reloaded the empty magazine. At the last shot she crashed forwards and bled. A final insurance shot when she blinked on the corneal test confirmed it—she was dead. And not lactating, thank God. The calf was not hers.
The truck arrived. The old girl was winched up like a sunken trawler and taken to the skinning shed. First shot? Through both lungs, above the heart, below the spine. Perfect. The Raptor had fragmented and exited. All subsequent shots bar one had found their mark but the cow never gave up until the very last. Supper was a marvel of mushroom soup, pork tenderloin, and chocolate pudding, all wrapped in the warm haze of good wine and the knowledge that I’d survived my first day.
Johannesburg struck me with the familiar tang of heat and diesel, the scent of Africa’s welcome-home handshake. I was met by Frank from Africa Sky, a man whose casual competence suggested he’d seen it all before and knew better than to comment on the baggage of wide-eyed hunters. At the police office, Gilbert moved with bureaucratic ease, and before I could finish my complimentary bottle of water, my rifles were in the car and we were off.
We made a quick detour through Lindwood Bridge’s Safari & Outdoors, a glittering armory for modern Nimrods. Like a child loosed in a chocolate shop, I exercised remarkable restraint—purchasing only what I absolutely didn’t need—and then we hit the tar toward Sabrisa.
The reunion with Chris and Sabina was heartening. It had been three years, but Africa doesn’t forget its own. I met the staff again: Sammy, the silent-footed scout; Kate, who wielded hospitality like a weapon; and Ephraim, a new helper whose quiet energy hinted at deeper layers that still needed to be discovered.
We zeroed rifles before sundown. The .375 H&H sang true. The .458 Lott needed two clicks down—an adjustment of no consequence but great satisfaction. A shower rinsed off the dust, and we convened around a Braai that would’ve made Bacchus weep: chicken wings crisped to perfection, sausage and steak thick enough to terrify cardiologists, all washed down with red wine from a bottle that didn’t last long enough. A G&T by the fire followed. Life was good. Even liberating a squirrel from my room (clearly impressed by my gear) didn’t disturb the mood.
Sunday: Buffalo Day
Up at 0545 after the kind of deep, clean sleep only found on African soil. Breakfast was light—we were still metabolizing last night’s feast—and then we transferred to a neighboring concession in pursuit of Syncerus caffer, the African buffalo, that bovine embodiment of malice and menace.
The bush was thick, visibility brief and conversations briefer. We saw giraffe, kudu, impala, warthog, and baboon. But the real action came when we nearly walked into a cow and calf. The wind betrayed us, as it does, and we backtracked.
Then he showed. A bull—big, brutish, and brimming with belligerence—crossed ahead of the truck. We saw him again while Sammy was checking spoor, which gave rise to a moment of African comedy as he leapt back aboard the truck faster than a Springbok dodging a lion.
Lunch back at Sabrisa was predictably spectacular. A nap on the veranda followed by a call home reminded me that my family still assumed I was mostly sane.
Back out by 1430. While investigating old tracks, we spotted a herd of 12 buffalo. Dense brush gave us cover for a stalk. One old cow, quartering toward me at 50 meters, presented herself for judgment.
The .458 Lott, stoked with 420g CEB Raptors screaming out at 2350fps, barked once. A solid hit. But then an unseen calf ran out, and chaos ensued. Chris yelled to shoot again, but she vanished into the bush before I could bolt another round.
No death bellow.
We waited. Cigarettes. Reloaded: another Raptor and 450g solids behind it. Then the dogs—DT and the GSP—were unleashed. What followed was quintessential Africa: heat, tension, and the scent of old blood.
Then, Sammy pointed to fresh blood-crimson, arterial and copious.The barking shocked us—DT had her at bay. We ran, freezing on two occasions when we heard her crashing towards us yet the charge did not come.
There she was. A dark shape hulking over the courageous DT in the gloom. Chris fired, I fired four times at the front half of the dark shape and reloaded the empty magazine. At the last shot she crashed forwards and bled. A final insurance shot when she blinked on the corneal test confirmed it—she was dead. And not lactating, thank God. The calf was not hers.
The truck arrived. The old girl was winched up like a sunken trawler and taken to the skinning shed. First shot? Through both lungs, above the heart, below the spine. Perfect. The Raptor had fragmented and exited. All subsequent shots bar one had found their mark but the cow never gave up until the very last. Supper was a marvel of mushroom soup, pork tenderloin, and chocolate pudding, all wrapped in the warm haze of good wine and the knowledge that I’d survived my first day.
