The old man crumpled up the newspaper article and threw it into the fire. “Emotions have overtaken
rationality. People care more about what famous actors and sports stars have to say than scientists!
Hopefully this new drive of simple living will have a positive effect on the outdoors and man’s primal
instinct to hunt” muttered the man out of breath. He poured a generous hand of Mr Jack and settled
comfortably in the chair in front of the fire. His lonely mind drifted back to the Australian lass that got
away..”.
The surround sound woke her with recordings of a fish eagle call and gentle breaking waves as the
automatic blinds gave way to a glass penthouse overlooking the Sydney Harbour bridge. She pushed
back the pang of guilt at her opulent lifestyle, plugged in her wireless earphones and caught the elevator
down to start her day with a hard routine run along the panoramic promenade. She worked hard for her
toned tanned body, but her blue eyes and blond hair were inherited from good genetics.
After a quick shower, she grabbed her laptop and a mandatory Skinny Latte from her favourite ethically
sourced organic coffee bar, and arrived at her offices housed in the Australian Square skyscraper on
George Street. At ten am sharp, Fanny Green opened her laptop to begin her day.
Her job – To expose the brutes killing the wildlife across the world! She had millions of followers on
multiple social media platforms where she named and shamed the culprits. She was employed by a
multi-national NGO, it often surprised her with the obscene salary bracket she now found herself in but
being Green was not cheap and they had generous donors. Her role entailed surfing the net for the
killers, following leads highlighted by her superiors and attending numerous extravagant gala banquets
and fundraisers. She had a PHD in marketing but her love for wildlife had brought her on this career
path.
Her PA brought her a letter in a battered brown envelope. Old fashioned and handwritten there was
something exciting about opening a letter. It was an invitation to visit real Africa and the only cost was
an open minded – signed Mr Game.
He woke up and walked out of his tent to the fire. Kicking a few mopane logs together they lit up
quickly. The fire had only been out for a few hours as their antipoaching patrol had gone late into the
night and early morning. He had lost another rhino on his concession; he had caught the poachers and
hand delivered them to the police. Yet, as in Africa, he had his doubts if true justice would be served,
there were too many fingers in the honey pot that went to the highest level.
With back-to-back safaris he had run out of most of his supplies. He grabbed a handful of baobab seeds
which he had roasted over the fire, then, using his hand mincer with a finer setting, he ground the seeds
into a nutritional coffee – Talk about organic coffee he thought to himself as he relished his first sip.
He looked over his tented camp which had a panoramic view of the mighty Zambezi River. He needed to
make the ten-hour trip into town to fetch his supplies, check in with Marge, download his emails and
organise the logistics for his next hunt.
In the late afternoon he arrived in town to find a distraught Marge. He often wondered if he employed
Marge, or she employed him. She had taken a mothering role and she loved the business almost as
much as he did.
“We are under attack. They have hacked our website, lambasted us on every social media platform! We
have had nervous clients calling, National Parks have visited twice, which is a positive as at least they are
doing their job. However, I am worried we might get cancellations even though all the facts show we
uphold the integrity and ethics of a business we love,” cried Marge.
“Don’t worry Marge! Let me sort this out. Give me that letterhead notepad and envelope. I think it’s
time Miss Green sees true Africa” and Mr Game began to write.
She had concluded her two-day stint at the upmarket African lodge which she visited annually with her
generous donors. Though she had seen the big five and the lodge had lived up to its five-star reputation,
she couldn’t help but feel somewhat disappointed. There was an artificial atmosphere, more of a Perth in
the bush, with all the amenities and technology at hand with the associated price tag. Was this true
Africa she questioned as she watched her associates taxi and take off in their luxury Pilatus PC-12. Alone
she stood on the edge of the runway with her bags, wondering if her acceptance of the strange invite
was the wisest choice.
The vintage Cessna 180 came down low behind her, the rush of wind knocked off her wide brimmed hat,
startled she tripped over her bags ending up in a sprawl of limbs as the bush plane landed. Blue eyed,
mousy haired, tanned skin, his faded safari suite accentuating his strongly built frame – Mr Game
jumped down from his aircraft, apologising and introducing himself. His eyes were kind yet alert and
intelligent.
He showed her the boundary of his concession flying low. She could see his portion of land was tough
rugged country – Not ideal for the photographic or vehicle bound tourist. Pointing to her left, she only
just made out four men on the ground in military uniform who saluted their plane.
“My game scouts” commented Mr Game.
“Oh yes, I presume they are used in finding the animals you kill?” questioned Miss Green.
“Contrary! To try and find the people that want to kill my animals. We have a continuous war against
poaching and, antithetical to what you believe, we too need to look after our wildlife as without a
sustainable population we have no business.” sighed Mr Game as he landed between two koppies on a
dirt strip.
He covered the plane with an old sail and some shade netting. “The tyres have steel covers as the
hyenas seem to enjoy the taste of rubber”, he laughed. An old open Landcruiser was parked and he
opened the door for Miss Green.
Flustered Fanny Green chastised “You know I am a capable woman who can open her own door thank
you very much Mr Game.”
“Miss Green…I am opening your door not because you are a lady, but because I was brought up to
aspire to be a gentleman, therefore humour me by allowing me this courtesy,” pleaded Mr Game with a
twinkle in his eye.
His camp was neat, comfortable, and functional. He dropped her off at her tent which had a splendid
view of the Zambezi. She could see and hear the hippos playing in the pools. A large crocodile tanned on
a sand bank. A real fish eagle screamed to signal her arrival in true Africa. As there were no fences she
hurried to the communal area which was a large tent consisting of a long wooden dining room table in
the centre, and the walls were covered with overflowing bookshelves. Mr Game had gone off into the
bush to fix a pump and repair a slow leaking tyre on his Landcruiser, as he would be fetching his client at
the airstrip later that day.
As she ran her fingers over his library of books, one caught her eye. The author was her host and it had
been his published Doctorate: The co-existent & sustainability of the community, the hunter, and the
wildlife. So, he was not merely a dumb brute who murdered animals. Furthermore, a magazine article
highlighted Mr Game had also fought against the mine into which she had put ample time and effort to
stop exploration. She was surprised to have a common goal.
She dozed off and awoke to a crackling fire that had been lit, and a glass of red wine placed next to her.
Not far off she heard the night chorus of the blackback jackal and spotted hyena beginning in unison of
each other. She moved closer to the fire and wondered where Mr Game was.
Headlights reflecting off the tents signalled their arrival.
“This is John from Texas; this is Miss Green. We had a break down which delayed us. John, I am sure you
could use a good whiskey” said Mr Game handing him a bourbon with a generous helping of ice. “Let me
go and check on dinner and leave the two of you to get acquainted.”
John was a quietly spoken likeable guy. Intelligent, successful and, what guiltily surprised her, he knew
far more about Africa and its wildlife then she did. He had visited Africa on numerous occasions, he
sponsored an antipoaching unit and hounds on Mr Game’s concession in an attempt to reduce the Rhino
poaching.
John quoted the figures on how much hunting contributed to the GDP of Africa, the amount of labour
employed, the additional positive spin-off into other tourism markets and direct foreign investment. He
was especially concerned on the real-life case studies such as Kenya, which showed when ethical
hunting was banned there was a direct relation to an increase in poaching. He pointed out that certain
areas are not suitable for the normal ecotourism model, the areas are harsh and require real dedication
to combat poaching. Furthermore, Africa has shown time and time again, if it pays it stays.
“So, John did you end up buying that beautiful Holland & Holland Royal Rook rifle .22 for your son’s
birthday” queried Mr Game as he served starters of venison carpaccio with grated parmesan.
John gave the affirmative.
Fanny Green could not hold back her words, “You mean to tell me that you’re equipping your child to
become a violent killer at such a young age?”.
John replied “Definitely not Miss Green. I hope you take this in the spirit it is deserved, to spark your
thought process: You’re equipped to be a courtesan, but you’re not one, are you?”.
She agreed he did have a point.
Mains were served which were Eland fillets stuffed and wrapped in bacon. They all retired to their beds
early as Mr Game had warned that the next few days would be tough and tiring.
Bula awoke Miss Green at four am sharp with a soft “koko” and freshly pressed coffee. It was still dark
outside as she approached the figures around the fire. Mr Game introduced her to his trackers, and they
made their way to the vehicle. After a short and extremely bumpy drive they left the vehicle. Mr Game
and John took out their rifles signalling all were safe.
“Mr Game why the gun?” “Miss Green, because we are too old to run!” chuckled Mr Game in reply.
They began a strenuous climb. She felt her legs burn and her chest tightened. She thought how Mr
Game had endless energy and John, far her senior, seemed to take the hike with little effort. On the
summit the sky crimsoned and a blood red sun rose on the horizon. It was a spectacular view of rocky
outcrops dotting the dry landscape. She would be in for a tough time even though she classified herself
as fit. There was limited water with only a few green patches which she thought must be natural springs.
They began their descent, this shortly changed back to an ascent which was the course for the morning.
Mr Game and Bula explained the story that the spoors told on the ground. They pointed out birds, trees,
insects, plants, and game. They found elephant spoor which were not followed as they would not meet
the required criteria. During the heat of the day they found a spring where they filled up the water
bottles, had a lunch of cold meats and, under the thick shade of an orchard of fig trees, had a siesta with
an orchestra of green pigeons playing in the canopy above.
Before the heat had dissipated, they were back on the boot heading deeper into the concession. Bula
raised his hand, and all went down on their haunches. Branches broke ahead. In a matter of seconds an
elephant bull was upon them. He charged and as Fanny Green was getting ready to run, she felt a strong
hand holding hers. It was Mr Game alongside her. He whispered, “Don’t run, he is only testing us”.
The bull came four times to within a few meters of the group. All held their position and he slowly
moved away.
“Are you all crazy? You have the rifles, you are the hunters and when an animal almost kills us, you don’t
shoot? We have seen ample game today, but you don’t shoot. I think you have all lost your minds!”
shouted Miss Green.
“Since you took off in the bush plane Miss Green, you have been on the hunt. The shooting of the
animal is merely part of the hunt but not the focus. We love the wildlife just the same as any tourist. We
are selective of what we shoot as he needs to be of a certain age and sex, as we too believe in
sustainability.” Mr Game calmly explained with a smile.
As the evening approached, both Mr Game and Bula started to get excited. They called John over and
pointed to the spoor they had found. It was fascinating watching them discuss the age by the size and
the cracks which could be compared to fingerprints. Tension filled the air as they advanced. Light was
fading and Mr Game quickly climbed up a nearby koppie to scout. He returned drenched in sweat, out of
breath and confirmed he had seen the lone bull.
“John it is your elephant bull,” whispered Mr Game.
They camped on the spot as is would be irresponsible to try and shoot in the fading light and wanted to
start on the spoor first thing in the morning. They made a good fire and cut some leaves as a mattress,
making tea before retiring to bed.
During the night Miss Green was awoken by the roaring of lion. The roar seemed to vibrate through her
whole body, and she was terrified. She saw movement and shadows on the other side of the fire. Once
again, the calm voice of Mr Game reassured her to enjoy the moment. He was leaning against a tree
close by with his rifle ready, it was not needed as the pride of lions passed their camp.
Before sun rise, they were on the spoor. The adrenaline was pumping. The team was on alert as the
spoor freshened. They smelt him and heard him. The trackers pulled back as Mr Game advanced with
John. The elephant came into view. He was thin but large framed, with a huge head and beautiful
broken tusks. His temples had sunk in, and he had a bad limp. His tail had no hair.
The two hunters advanced to a mere ten meters of the bull to ensure an ethical shot to the brain.
Hunting was not as barbaric as she thought. Watching man in his primal state was rather exciting and
her heart skipped a beat.
The bull fell to Johns 470 Rigby. Fanny Green agreed he had been put out of his misery of old age. It was
an emotional moment for all, with John the most overcome with wet eyes. The teeth estimated an age
of over fifty years. Within an hour a chorus of singing began and a crowd of people from the nearby
community arrived. The elephant was cut into pieces of meat which would add to a good source of
protein for the poverty-stricken population and Mr Game gave a brief lecture on the importance of
preserving the wildlife. It seemed not only the hunter benefited from the hunt…
On her departing real Africa, Marge took Fanny Green to the international airport.
“Miss Green, as you will see, in life there are crooked Doctors, Accountants, Lawyers and Politicians. It is
the same with our industry but please don’t stereotype and try to put an end to an industry that is
needed with a symbiotic relation to the communities and wildlife. Yes, we need you to work alongside
our organisational bodies to ensure proper regulation and research!” pleaded Marge as she gave her a
hug and squeezed her hand goodbye.
She could not sleep on the plane with her mixed emotions. Had she been wrong? Maybe just maybe,
hunting and conservation do go hand in hand. Had emotions overtaken rationality and realism?
Fanny Green opened her laptop and began writing a report with the title “Real Africa” to her superiors.
What was the nickname they had given Mr Game……Ah yes it was Foepie!
Klein Biel
