Work at the mine kept me from visiting any of the three gun stores in Harare, Zimbabwe for the first two weeks, but by the third week, I’d laid out my plans to hit them all early Saturday morning. The first one was a higher-end, fancier store in downtown, offering more than just basic rifles, while also having a gunsmith on site. Just as I’d found when visiting Australia, generally, prices across the board were almost twice what they were in the US. This was evidence of shipping, importation and customs fees, and having to pass through a few more hands before making it to the store.
Powder was more in line. The Somchem brand came right out of neighboring South Africa. Though the product numbers did not mean much to me, a free loading data book showed a full range of fast to slow burning rates was available, both spherical and extruded, but just not the extensive range like we have here. CCI primers could be had, as well as Speer and Hornady bullets, with Barnes also in limited calibers and weights. A few solid monolithic bullets in the larger traditional bores could also be found coming out of South Africa. RCBS dies and presses were well represented on their shelves. Leupold was considered the premium line of scopes, but other off-brands at half the price or less were also for sale in the store. I was surprised to see some handguns at the time, in 1996, but less than a half dozen were in the display case from which to choose. Just as in Australia, I was surprised to find that the .243 Winchester was a very popular round. For practical farmers using the inexpensive local ammo, careful harvesting of all plains game was possible, especially within 200 yards or less. Not the first choice for a foreign hunter seeking fine trophies, but as a working tool on the farm, it got the job done.
The second store was barely a third of the first store in size, but actually carried more in the way of used rifles, including the world-popular FN FAL semi-automatic battle rifle in 7.62×51, or more conventionally known the .308. One in very good condition could be purchased for $6,000 Zim, or about $600 US dollars. I was told a lot of the farmers used them as a camp or ranch gun. They had some in the way of clothing and camping gear, but not much else. So hopefully looking at my map, I then headed to the final destination… a place called BIG BUFF, with a safari-looking logo in the phone book of a nice Cape buffalo bull!
At least the name...
sounded like it was more focused on hunting, my main area of interest, now that I was actually living in Zimbabwe, Africa. Little did I know at the time, that walking into that store would drastically and forever change my life.
Chapter 1: BIG BUFF Hunting Store
More near the edge of Harare, as I turned off the main road onto a side street, I was immediately greeted by the BIG BUFF store sign, light tan with dark brown lettering, and
of course, the buffalo logo; my pulse quickened with excitement! The building was about 150 feet long, two stories, with a few general stores occupying the bottom, and apparently BIG BUFF had the entire top half. Getting out of my Toyota, I entered near the left side, and saw a stairway to heaven right away to lead me upstairs. I almost ran up the stairs, turned to the right at the top, and walked into what is obviously a store that caters to hunters, African hunters.
Hard to the right and left were areas of locally made hunting clothes. The center area of the floor was wide open with all of the obvious hunting display cases to the back, right side corner. On the right side of that, near the front face of the building, was a man dressed in a short sleeve safari shirt and pants, both in medium safari green. The buffalo logo was embroidered on his shirt pocket with the words BIG BUFF. I walked right up and introduced myself.
For the past two weeks during introductions, I would say that I was from New Mexico, and people would almost always give me a funny look and then ask if my wife was
Mexican! Apparently, few Zimbabweans had heard of New Mexico, but they all know about Mexico the country. Tired of always having to explain the differences between the two, and where New Mexico was, with this gentleman, I took a different approach.
“Hi! My name is Ken. I used to live in Montana, but now I’m here in Zimbabwe for four months to help out at the platinum mine southwest of town.”
“Montana, Big Sky Country? Did you hunt much there?” This was his immediate reply… now I knew I had a much better introduction for sure!
His name was Stephan, and he was a fourth or fifth generation white Zimbabwean coming from a farming background. We talked for almost a half hour while he told of
hunting lions when he was young, and while I spoke of shooting a thousand rounds of .223 in a day at one of the prairie dog towns less than an hour from my...
old home in north-central Montana. It was obvious right away, that Stephan was just as interested in my stories from the Big Sky Country as I was of his hippo and crocodile adventures while spearfishing on the Zambezi River. It was as if hunting soul mates had met for the first time.
I purchased several old back issues of the Zimbabwean Hunter magazine which were for sale on his desk. They were written by native Zimbabwean hunters born and raised
there, not by an American who had spent a few weeks hunting in Africa. We heartily shook hands as I parted, each of us obviously glad we had met the other person that day.
Chapter 2: Dinner Invite
Every week after that, I stopped into BIG BUFF whenever I could. I asked Stephan about things I’d read in the magazines I’d bought, while he eagerly asked me more and more about the hunting I’d done in America. I also told him of my caribou hunt in Alaska where I was almost eaten by a brown bear! He smiled and listened intently just as I did when he told me about what happened once after he shot a nice maned, male lion. After dropping him with one shot, as he walked up to inspect his trophy, a lioness came out of the bush only yards from him.
“Did you shoot her too?” I asked.
“No,” he said, “I just poked her in the nose with my barrel, and then she turned and walked away.”
“She was so close, you poked her in the nose with your muzzle? Weren’t you scared?”
“I could tell she was just curious. I was in no danger at all, so no need to shoot her.”
And there was the time he was spearfishing on the Zambezi River just east of Lake Kariba. The river was chocked full of crocodiles, and Stephan was snorkeling around spearing fish with a mesh bag full of bleeding fish tied to his waist. When he came up after spearing a nice fish and bagging it, he saw a massive crocodile making its way towards him looking like a death-barge on a mission.
“I swam so fast for the shore, and reached up to grab a low overhanging branch on a tree. It had three inch long thorns everywhere, but I pulled myself out of the water, and climbed up it like my life depended on it, which it did. Those thorns cut and tore at my skin like razors, but I never even felt a thing. So there I sat on a heavy branch, a ways up from the water, dripping blood from the cuts all over my body, while that fat croc floated directly...
below me, hoping that branch would break. After about fifteen minutes, he finally swam off, and I dropped back down and then made it to the shore for good.”
“I swam so fast for the shore, and reached up to grab a low overhanging branch on a tree. It had three inch long thorns everywhere, but I pulled myself out of the water and climbed up it like my life depended on it, which it did. Those thorns cut and tore at my skin like razors, but I never even felt a thing. So there I sat on a heavy branch, a ways up from the water, dripping blood from the cuts all over my body while that fat croc floated directly below me, hoping that branch would break. After about fifteen minutes, he finally swam off, and I dropped back down and then made it to the shore for good.”
I couldn’t even imagine myself in that situation! Back and forth we went with one of his stories followed by one of mine, one of mine followed by one of his. We were really enjoying each other’s company, and obviously were cast from a similar mold. A few weeks later, when I walked into BIG BUFF, Stephan said his wife, Riki, and three children would like to meet “that man from Montana”, resulting in an invitation to dinner later that week. I hastily listened while he gave me instructions, hearing I needed to head out of town on the northern road, and turn right on “Christian Bank Road”. His house was then just a kilometer or so down, on the right.
Chapter 3: Dinner and a Kudu
I left after I got back into town after work, heading through Harare and then out on the two lane highway north towards Stephan’s house. Once you leave the city proper, everything just sort of ends; there is no suburbia, just tall grass and trees. Five kilometers out, then 10. According to the map, the next small town is another 20, but I saw dozens and dozens of the natives walking in alongside the road, in literally the middle of nowhere, seemingly coming from nowhere, and also headed nowhere. Where the heck did they come from, and where could they possibly be going?
But more importantly, how long had they been walking, and how much longer do they have go? It made me feel funny, in a guilty sort of way, driving by in my nice gold Toyota Camry. Never before in my life have I felt so guilty about having so much when I see so many with so very little. This is not the case of your neighbor down the road at home having a nicer car than you,...
or you having a nicer house or boat then they do. This is about how you feel inside when you have a very nice house, a new fancy car, sporting goods, electronics, and can take frequent weekend trips, but at work, you see people in the very same set of clothes all week long, They can’t even afford a single speed bicycle, so they have to walk everywhere. It makes one think very hard about the many times we complain about not being able to get the color or exact new model cell phone we want.
Finally, I came to the side road leading to Stephan’s house. He was standing outside at the front door to greet me. I had overshot his unmarked turn-off. He took me inside right away to meet his wife, Riki, and his two young boys and one daughter. Dinner is already on the table, so we sat down right away. His three children are only 4 to 7 years old, and don’t speak English, only Afrikaans; a language similar to the native Shona, spoken by the locals.
As we begn eating, right from the start Stephan and Riki started asking me all about Montana and the hunting I’ve done there. I told them everything I could, and saw that they were truly fascinated by it all. They in turn started telling about the hunting they both have done in Zimbabwe. As dinner came to a close, Riki leaned over towards her husband and said, “Stephan, you simply MUST take Ken out to get a kudu!” Inside I was thinking, YES, YES!
At this point, Stephan turned to me and asked if I’d like to go on a kudu hunt some weekend? Of course, I tell him that I’d love to, and he responded that he would try to arrange a hunt for the next weekend. It was very hard for an American to believe, but Stephan has farmers come into BIG BUFF every week, begging for him to come out and shoot game for free, sometimes even offering to pay him to do so!
“Stephan… the kudu are in my cotton…. the warthogs are eating my wheat… can’t you please come out and shoot some of them?”
To the farmers, with so much to do on the property, taking out a few game animals was considered a chore, not something they could spend the time to do. Stephan told me that when asked, he’d always tell them he had to check his schedule, and that he’d get back to them. He...
never replied on the spot that he would love to come out this weekend, but would call them back that evening or the next day. Saying yes, he would be able to schedule it in this time, and was glad to help them out with their animal problems.
One time, a farmer came in pleading for him to come out. A pack of hyenas had moved in and were killing one head of cattle each night and only partially eating it. The farmer even offered Stephan a bounty of $1,000 Zim (or about $100 USD) for each hyena he killed. The first night he came out, he shot one broadside at less than 100 yards with a 180 grain soft point in his .300 Win Mag. And that bullet did not exit! The farmer paid him on the spot, and later during my stay, Stephan even brought me out to hunt hyenas at night at that very same farm.
Chapter 4: Night Driving!
My head was spinning as I got into my car that night and drove away from Stephan and Riki’s home, having just been invited to go on my first African hunt. It was fully dark out by now, and I soon came to realize that driving on the rural two lane highways between small towns was frightening to say the least. Two main things scared the heck out of me.
First, the government did not believe in using reflective paint along the outer edge of the road, or the centerlines. The result was that you would be driving down a black asphalt road, not too sure of where the road ended and the shoulder began. Curves were particularly scary. It was sometimes hard to keep from drifting off the pavement. So I was going along in the middle of nowhere, when suddenly something flashed by right next to my speeding car. What was that, I wonder? An animal?
Again and again something swooshed by my car, just barely missing the front, outside corner. It kept scaring the heck out of me. I slowed down quite a bit, worried there might be animals crossing the road, and I surely didn’t want to hit one. Finally, I could see that locals, dressed in dark clothes, were walking right on the edge of the road, in the middle of nowhere, ten or twenty miles from the nearest town. Being very dark skinned, they were almost invisible in the moonless night. There was virtually no traffic at that time of night, so I began to drive more in the center of the road in order to avoid striking anyone. I was in constant fear that at any moment, one or more would come rolling up on my hood and smashing into the...
windshield. I was gripping the wheel so hard. I slowed way down, but I couldn’t get away from the thought of accidentally striking a pedestrian.
Second, I was reminded that in general, most Zimbabweans do not take very good care of their vehicles. While driving near the center of the road to keep from hitting pedestrians, up ahead a car was headed straight towards me with its high beams on, blinding me. Lord knows, I didn’t want to hit a walker, so I quickly flashed my headlights with hopes they would kill their high beams and stop blinding me. I often noted that only one headlight was even working at the time. Their responses were to turn the one light off completely, so then I couldn’t see them heading towards me or even any pedestrians walking on my side. Then I realized that out of two headlights, each having a low and a high beam, ALL THEY HAD WORKING WAS THE ONE HIGH BEAM!
I screamed out loud, “Turn your high beam back on! Please turn it back on! I can’t see you or any pedestrians!”
Not wanting to risk grazing the now dark oncoming vehicle, I had to move over more towards the shoulder, and kept getting quick flashes of dark clothed locals flashing by the side of my car! Again, the image of seeing one or several of them rolling up onto my hood, and then smashing into my windshield, played over and over in my mind.
I had to stop flashing the vehicle blinding me with its one or two high beams. I now know, most likely both low beams were burned out. AND I had to drive closer to the shoulder to keep the oncoming cars from grazing me. But to keep from hitting a walker, I had to slow down to only 25 mph to increase my reaction time. My trip back home, ended up taking twice as long, and my gut was in knots well before I pulled into the driveway. From that time forward, I did everything I could to keep from ever having to drive at night in Zimbabwe!
Chapter 5: Hunting Camp
The next Monday, Stephan called to let me know that a farmer wanted some kudus taken. He wanted to make biltong- the African version of what we call jerky- but didn’t have the time. So my first hunt in Africa would be for kudu, and the cost would be zero! Fortunately, my family flew in mid-week, and my wife brought along the scoped .375 H&H, allowing me to use it for the hunt. That Saturday, I had to work a half day in the morning, but by early afternoon, I pulled into Stephan’s drivewayand...
saw his Toyota mini-pickup’s bed loaded with gear as high as the cab, full-length! I was told that Mostead, his 50-some year old yard keeper, would go along to help. As the cab could only seat two, I asked where he’d ride? "On top of all of the gear," I was told, at which point Stephan said we were ready to go. I was shocked as Mostead climbed up on top of the pile, and buried himself all snug into the gear just behind the cab.
The farm we were going to is just over two hours away, and I was fearful the whole drive for Mostead as we went barreling down the two lane road at nearly 75 mph with him perched on top. We stopped once along the way for some diesel and Coke. At that time, on the sly, I also bought Mostead some cigarettes and a Coke, and let him know to be
quiet; it was just between him and me. I guess putting your index finger to your lips and making the “Shhhh” sound is a universally recognized symbol for “keep quiet”. He nodded and said, “Thanks Baass,” at a whisper-like level. Finally after two hours' travel, we slowed down and turned off onto a dirt road. Stephan let me know we had arrived at the farm.
After about a mile drive back into the bush, he turned into a cleared area with a fire pit in the center. This was where we would be making camp for our hunt tomorrow morning. Mostead jumped down from the pile of gear, stacked at least four feet above the top of the bed, and started unloading the tent and all of the other camp supplies. I stepped around the side and started pulling gear from the mountain in the bed.
“No, Ken, grab your rifle and let’s take a walk. Mostead will set up our camp while we do some scouting.”
I felt really bad about leaving that huge task to one man. In Montana, camps were always set up with everyone pitching in. This just did not seem right at all. It must’ve taken a couple hours just to carefully pack all this gear into the truck’s bed. It has to take twice that long to unload it and then set the whole camp up! I suggested we help and do it in half the time, but was told again that Mostead would take care of everything. At this point, I realized that’s just the way things are, and I had to learn to accept it for how things are done here in Zimbabwe.
So Stephan and I walked around for almost two hours, seeing plenty of game, but no kudu. It’s getting quite dark by then, and he said we needed to head back to camp. As we got nearer, it was...
fully dark out, but light from a fire drew us to the camp location. As we emerged from the bush, before me I saw a fully setup camp with a large tent and a campfire cooking dinner above the flames. Two chairs were set next to the fire with a small table between them.
Stepping inside the tent, it was fully set up inside with two cots already sheeted, a folded down blanket, and two fluffed pillows. A table was set between the two beds with a fuel lantern burning for light. I set my rifle on the bed, at which point Stephan said we should clean-up for dinner. At first, I felt amazed at what had been done by one man in just two hours, and then I felt ashamed for not helping out. But then I had to remind myself that this is how things are done in this country, and I just have to respect that.
Outside, Stephan and I helped ourselves to a bowl of stew that Mostead had already prepared. After eating, he grabbed our dishes and washed them, and then retired to a sleeping bag on the other side of the camp. Stephan and I sat and talked by the fire for another hour or so, and then decided to go retire for the night. We would get up early tomorrow to hopefully find and harvest a kudu for the farmer. As we settled into the freshly made beds, I lay there and couldn’t get out of my head all that Mostead did to unload and setup camp by himself.
“Just so you know, Stephan, someday when you come to America to hunt, and maybe even Montana, camp will be nothing like this at all. And you will have to help set it up with all of the other guys in camp.”
“Ah my friend, that would be very nice. I hope that can happen someday. Good night Ken. Tomorrow, we will get you your first kudu.”
“My first kudu, and my first head of African game ever. I’ve dreamed of this all my life. Thank you for making it happen, Stephan. And good night to you, too.”
Chapter 6: First Kudu
Why was I not surprised, when after being gently wakened in the morning, I could already smell fresh coffee, and upon exiting the tent, see a hot breakfast awaiting us by the fire? Mostead had awoken early and gotten everything ready for us in the wee hours of...
the morning. I grabbed my Winchester African in .375 H&H and loaded the magazine only with the 350 grain Barnes Originals, wanting to see how the heavy copper jacketed bullets with a lead core would work on kudu. The chamber was left empty while we would be traveling in the Toyota.
With seasons reversed in the southern hemisphere, at that time it was the start of winter, so most of the trees had dropped their leaves. But many of the bushes still clung to theirs. We only drove about 20 minutes and then got out to walk an area of scrub brush, the type of cover kudus prefer. After having dreamt about hunting in Africa someday, I was actually quite nervous, especially about shooting in front of Stephan. It’s one thing to miss a shot when by yourself, but quite different when you feel the pressure to make a good shot because a friend is there to see the whole thing.
Many Americans tend to suffer from a condition some call “admiring the shot”, where after the first shot, they like to see how the animal reacts and wait to see if it will drop to just one shot so they can, in their hearts and to their friends, later claim it was a one shot kill. Yes, a bit of pride involved here, but I prefer to keep on shooting to end the animal’s demise as quickly as possible. It wasn’t fifteen minutes into our hunt when I had my chance at a very nice kudu bull, around 45 to 50 inches, according to Stephan. He was quartering hard away to the right, about in a seven to one o’clock orientation. Confident in the ability of the 350 Barnes Original to give adequate penetration on an animal the size of a cow elk, I chambered a round and let the first round fly towards the last rib, angling for the far shoulder. I was amazed that the animal did not drop to the shot! After all, a 350 at almost 2,400 fps, should have knocked it off its feet… at least from what I had read in print.
As it turned slightly to the left and began to run off into heavier bush, I worked the bolt quickly and fired, but nothing happened! I watched in disbelief as the kudu disappeared into the brush. What had happened to my rifle? Embarrassingly, when testing loads back home, I had only single fed cartridges into the chamber, never filling the magazine and trying to run rounds through the rifle. When I now opened the bolt, I saw the remaining cartridges stuck in a nose down orientation in the magazine. It turns out that the bottom of the magazine spring had moved out of...
place, allowing the follower to tip forwards, lowering the nose end. They would not feed because when the bolt hit the rear end of the rounds, the nose was so low it only mashed against the front of the magazine box. The cartridge was too low to feed up and out of the magazine. Taking the remaining rounds out of the gun, I just dropped one in the chamber and headed off with Stephan after my kudu.
In about a hundred yards, we had a quick glimpse of the kudu heading almost straight away from us. A quick snap shot and the whump of the bullet was clearly heard, but the kudu again ran off. I was getting rather discouraged to say the least. In another 200 yards, we caught up with it for the second time. One final round through both shoulders dropped it on the spot. I immediately began to apologize to Stephan for my poor shooting performance and having to shoot three times.
”Nonsense!" he replied. “All three of your shots were very well placed, and you kept shooting instead of waiting for it to drop. You did excellent!”
I guess the American in me came through. I did not drop it with one shot, but I didn’t stand back and just admire my first shot. I kept reloading and shooting, reloading and shooting. We took several photos and then more closely examined my kudu. We did find three entry points and more importantly, three exits. However, when later dressing the bull, it was obvious the very heavy for caliber bullet was opening up too slowly; it would though, make for a great heavier game bullet.
This fact was later proven when Stephan borrowed the rifle and the same loads when guiding a hunter for Cape buffalo. Two bulls were taken using the 350 Original. The first only took one shot, and the second dropped just a short distance after the first shot, and received an insurance shot moments later while the bull lay unable to get up. It’s just a matter of using the right tool for the job. I imagine that the 270 Barnes X-Bullet would have ended things much quicker with my kudu, but that’s how you learn.
Later that afternoon, when we dropped the kudu off at the farmer’s house, he was thrilled that I’d been successful, and that now he would be able to make a lot of biltong from the good-sized bull. Biltong is the African version of jerky; only its open air dried, and not placed in a controlled drier or oven. The first time I tried it, I was given a little thicker piece. Unfortunately, it had not fully...
dried, and the center was still raw and moist. It was rather unpleasant to be chewing meat that was dry on the outside, but still raw on the inside. I was not too impressed and washed it down with lots of water. On my first ever kudu, I only got to keep the horns, but that was reward enough, considering the hunt was free. It was a great way to start off my string of African animals.
Chapter 7: Lessons Learned
I now know to always fill the magazine of a rifle and cycle all rounds through to ensure feeding will not be an issue. We were able to fix the moving magazine spring, which had caused the initial jam, by simply applying a small glob of silicone sealant to the bottom edge of the spring where it rests against the inside of the magazine floorplate.
All subsequent medium game was cleanly taken with the 270 Barnes X-Bullets, and as stated, the slower to expand 350 Originals worked perfectly on the much heavier Cape buffalo. Recovered bullets showed a nice mushroom and high weight retention with a long remaining shank..
The African way of shooting until the game is down for good was followed for the rest of my hunts. Each time, regardless of the number of shots taken, Stephan thought my shooting and immediate follow-ups were the proper way to take down game. Note that animals hit with the 270 X-Bullets seldom required more than one shot.
When my first photos came back from processing (this was long before the digital age), I saw how goofy I looked posing with a baseball hat on, and wearing a plaid shirt and blue jeans. I looked so out of place, not at all like I was in Africa. After seeing this, I immediately went out and purchased traditional safari green and khaki shirts and pants, as well as a safari-style hat. Just as a Hawaiian shift looks best when standing by a palm tree on the ocean shore, traditional safari clothing looks much better in photos when posing with African game. So regardless of where you may hunt in the world, if at all possible, try to wear traditional clothing for the area. The results in photos will look more like you fit in with the regional theme and will be well worth the effort.