AHC#20 Hunting Hogs and Shooting Men

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Hunting Hogs and Shooting Men

By Steve Edwards

“There is an immense amount of character in a pig, not only is it a fierce
antagonist, but it is a clever and thoughtful creature... a pig knows its own mind,
which very few human beings can assert... it sets a bright example to many of our
generals and so-called statesmen.”- Samuel Baker: Wild Beasts And Their Ways (1890).

There are ridiculous ways to die. Being mistaken for a warthog and shot dead by an idiotic colleague is one of them. This happened to a farm guard in September 2005 when he was on night patrol of maize fields at Hippo Valley Estates in Zimbabwe’s lowveld. At around four o’clock in the morning three guards heard movements in a field and, according to the press, “suspected that it was a warthog since the animals wreak havoc in the area.” (I am sure the report erred and the animal was, in fact, a bushpig. Although warthog boars are to some extent active at night, warthog are predominantly diurnal and bushpig primarily nocturnal, but both modify their habits slightly according to levels of disturbance and predation. Furthermore, bushpig are congenital crop-raiders, warthog are not). The three crop guards made a moronic decision. In an attempt to corner the hog, they separated and closed in from different directions. Only one man was armed and this expert was soon bamboozled into believing the rustling sounds made by his colleagues were coming from the hog so he opened fire with a shotgun. He shot one guard in the chest, killing him, and wounded the other guard in the leg. Screams of distress from the wounded man apprised the dumbfounded hunter that he had shot the wrong quarry. Adding to his dilemma, the police decided to press a murder charge. It was a night he will remember... that’s for sure.

Two bushpig boars shot in Mozambique by an American client of Tim Otto’s. Whilst Tim was stalking an nyala the pigs were flushed from their sleeping site. Being confused, and less paranoid than their brethren dwelling on farms they lingered long enough to provide targets.

Bushpig need heavy cover and water so are not found in the drier parts of southern Africa. Usually there are 4 to 6 in a sounder but sometimes over a dozen. The average adult weighs 65-70kg with exceptional pigs reaching over 100kg. Occasionally they breed with feral pigs. Their diet is mainly vegetable matter, but they are omnivorous and eat carrion, so can be shot over baits, which I have never tried. The bushpig is a feisty fighter, sometimes attacking humans and frequently attacking dogs. The lower canines are short (about 3 inches in an average male), but wear against the upper canines keeps them sharp. Henry Wolhuter (Memories Of A Game Ranger, 1948) mentioned one old boar killing six of his dogs. In Wild Life in South Africa (1947) James Stevenson-Hamilton states: “Bushpigs are most courageous and pugnacious animals and are capable of putting up a successful fight even against a leopard, in fact the latter animal does not care to attack an old boar. There are many stories of their formidable courage. An unwounded boar which had been hunted to bay, once charged a native ranger in the Sabi Game Reserve and pursued him for over a hundred yards, and, the man having fallen, he would have undoubtedly been killed or badly ripped, had not a plucky Irish terrier diverted the pig’s attention by attacking it from behind. When bayed by dogs, a male bushpig will charge like lightning for a few yards, and if a dog has ventured too close, it seldom escapes. One large boar, bayed by three dogs, ripped and killed the two larger ones, and seizing the third, a fox terrier, by the nose, chewed off the whole of its face below the eyes.”

Brian Marsh (Magnum, September 1983) tells of a pair of pigs putting a leopard to undignified retreat when it approached a bait they were feeding on. An incident in Angola is recounted by M. Ryan in African Wild Life, June 1965. A big leopard caught a piglet, tried to climb a tree, but was seized by a pig and pulled down. A second pig joined in the fray and after a battle lasting some ten minutes the leopard lay dead. Of its injuries Ryan stated: “One of its back legs was badly mauled, and the whole of the intestines were ripped out, apart from numerous deep wounds inflicted all over the body.”

Bushpig have a significant resistance to poisons. In a report (concerning Zimbabwe) published in 1976, J.H. Grobler said only 8 carcasses were found (some up to three kilometres from the bait site) after 121 baits treated with folidol were put out. Similar results were obtained with strychnine, telodrex and other poisons. I am aware of only one poisoning campaign that killed plenty of pigs. From 1967 to1970 Control Unit One of the African Development Fund was under Alex Mackenzie and for about 18 months he poisoned baboons in the Sipolilo (now Guruve) District with telodrex. Over 15 000 baboons and nearly 400 pigs were killed. The pigs died mainly from eating baboons, not the maize and pumpkin used for bait. In the same district a decade later, I killed 651 baboons by poisoning and shooting. There was evidence of about 12 pigs feeding on baboons, but I found none. To find 400 pigs, therefore, Mackenzie must have killed considerably more. (To reduce accidental deaths baits were laid at last light and recovered early in the morning, baboon carcasses being piled together, doused with some petrol, covered with wood and burned, which destroyed the poison). In terms of cost-effectiveness and the safety of other animals, hunting seems the best option, but pigs do not die easily, the few I shot with a 20-bore were never found. A 12-bore loaded with buckshot is the minimum to use, but slugs would be better.

Hunting bushpig certainly honed my hunting skills as a youngster. Of the limited range of game available to me on Zimbabwean tobacco and maize farms situated on the country’s central watershed, bushpig provided by far the best training for the elephant and buffalo hunting I was to do. Close attention to the wind was required; shooting was generally from close range; there was some possibility of getting attacked; hunting was often in thick cover; and you had to really learn to put the sneak into stalking. When I was in my teens my two main companions on pig hunts were my cousin Trevor Baynham (later a helicopter pilot with 7th Squadron, and then active in game capture) and Tim Otto (later a
safari operator in South Africa and Mozambique). Tim was such an avid hog hunter we nicknamed him “Bushpig”. Unfortunately, our sallies after pigs on nights moonlit, and moonless, came to an end soon after our schooldays. Life’s new requirements and the start of the bush war intervened. I greatly missed pig hunting, regretted it was over before I had experimented with the use of baits and dogs, and knew my education as a bushpig hunter was incomplete.

Tim was first to draw human blood on a pig hunt. It happened on Easter weekend, 1965, when he and Trevor went after bushpig on Tim’s father’s farm, Ameva, in the Suri Suri area near Hartley (now Chegutu). At sundown they stationed themselves next to a huge maize field, venturing out occasionally to listen for pig. At about 2am they heard sounds coming from the field. It was a dark night so Trevor, who has fairly poor night vision, remained at the perimeter while Tim went in, crawling down the furrow so as not to rustle the leaves. After about 40 metres Tim realized he was close. Besides the sounds he could hear, he saw some movement at the top of a maize plant. Tim thought: I’m in the same row; I’m close enough; a pig is about this height…so I can shoot it. From about 15 metres Tim sent the contents of a 12guage SSG shell at the sound. The shot was followed by thrashing noises and Tim quickly returned to the perimeter road and stood with Trevor, waiting to see if a pig emerged. To their amazement a very tall African man ran out of the maize and fled into the bush, whereupon Tim and Trevor hurried back to the farmhouse.

Pigs are a major pest in agricultural areas and many experiments have been conducted in Zimbabwe and South Africa to ascertain the best control measures. Quotas for Sustainable Wildlife Utilization in Communal Lands (1991), compiled by R. Martin and S. Thomas, states: “The bushpig is a problem animal which is almost impossible to eradicate. Unlimited quotas may be set…The success rate on bushpig hunts is very low.” This may apply to Zimbabwe, but concern was expressed in South Africa as long ago as 1990 that overhunting with dogs was occurring in the Cape Province. Aside from hunting (with or without dogs,) other control tactics which have been tested are electric fences, chemical repellents, trenches, trap guns, poisoned baits, snares and various traps. Probably because of the danger of coming off a horse and breaking one’s neck, or getting gored while lying on the ground, it seems nobody has tried the noble colonial sport of pig-sticking, as formerly practised in India and elsewhere in Asia.

Tim and his father with Tim’s first elephant (shot when he was 14) on Chirundu
Sugar Estates, Zambezi Valley, Zimbabwe.

From bushpig tushes to elephant tusks, Tim followed the hunter’s path. Tim (on the right) stands by a bull with tusks of 80 lbs and 70 lbs, shot in 1994 in Klaserie Private Nature Reserve, Limpopo Province, South Africa. Tim’s best elephant carried tusks of 100lbs and 98lbs and was shot in Umbabatt Private Nature Reserve in 1993.

Waking his mother, Tim told her he’d shot a man stealing maize and the thief had fled. “You did what?” she said. By now Tim’s dad had woken and heard Tim repeat himself. “That’s my boy” he said, then rolled over and went back to sleep. Fathers, in those days, seemed to be of a different breed. Tim, Trevor and I not only grew up in the same area, attended the same schools and hunted together, we also had in common fathers who were difficult and eccentric types.

Next morning the police were telephoned, came to investigate, and found a sack the man had been filling with cobs. They also found blood. Tim, who was only 13, and Trevor, a few years older, had to give statements. Later that day the man was found dead in Chegutu. “It was probably a lung shot,” theorized Tim, “which hit him when he was bending over to put a cob in the sack.”

I executed an artful stalk one night and shot an African man who was stealing maize. Fortunately, I inflicted neither death nor dire injury on him. It happened in 1970 on Chiwere farm in the Suri Suri area, where I was living at the time. The farm owner, Geordie McChlery, gave me permission to hunt pigs raiding his maize crop. The night I ventured out was very dark and windless. To begin with, I followed a road cutting through a large maize field. Either side of me the maize rose in solid black walls, but the pale sandveld soil gave me some help in keeping my bearings in the inky darkness. Shy, suspicious and clever, only baboon and elephant are smarter, bushpig have an excellent sense of smell, good hearing and adequate eyesight. The most wide-awake pigs are in agricultural areas where they are hunted by crop guards armed with 12 gauge shotguns

The basic tactics for hunting at night are: check the wind; wear soft dark clothing; wear shoes or boots with soles that do not crunch loudly on gravely soil; walk very slowly; stop often to listen for the tiniest sound. Don’t festoon yourself with a belt, knife and those mostly unnecessary gadgets which serve little purpose other than to exasperate when they hook up on plants. Avoid exposing your eyes to bright light as this is said to destroy visual purple (a pigment in the retina) and reduce night vision for up to 20 minutes. Apparently, smoking does the same. Remember all exposed parts of a white person’s skin show up as does gunmetal on nights with some light. It is better not to be reeking of sweat, soap or deodorant. Scent-masking products were not available in those days, but today I would try them. Animals often don’t run the moment they detect a suspicious sound or movement, but most bolt the instant they detect human odour. In an attempt to mask my scent, I experimented with khaki bush (Tagetes minuta) a very common and strongly aromatic annual weed. I crushed leaves and stems and rubbed them on myself, but don’t think it helped. To concentrate the odour and make for easier application, I soaked the weed in water, but this was not a success; boiling the plant in water destroyed the odour. I noticed hot water produced a yellow-brown dye, but a fixing agent was needed as the colour soon washed out of cloth.

At night an experienced hunter can get 10-15 metres from pigs in a maize land. The real difficulty is pinpointing where a pig is and where to shoot it. It is very much a shot in the dark. Pigs don’t show an eye and won’t stand for a light. Nocturnal animals, it is said, see different shades of grey, not colours. I know a spotlight beam alarms some animals more than others. Bushpig and jackal are particularly averse to a light; elephant tend to turn away, or may even rush toward the light; crocs often submerge if a very powerful light (500,000 candle power, or above) is shone on them. Buffalo
may bolt, or form a cluster with most animals facing away from the light. I have no experience of them at night, but apparently zebra and wildebeest tend to run when a light is shone on them. Species such as kudu, impala, reedbuck and duiker generally won’t flee. In fairly recent times it was established white light is the most threatening, red the least. If a spotlight with a red filter is used, so I have read, even bushpig and jackal will linger a moment before moving off.

On night hunts every pause to listen should last at least a minute or two. The crack as the maize stalk is broken has some carrying power, but will be a very soft sound if the pig is far away. Mosquitoes can be a loud distraction when you are really trying to hear. Very wise pigs will bite down a plant and wait several minutes before starting to feed. So wait also. When they start to feed, you move, halting the instant they stop eating and start listening. Remain to the leeward of the wind and get yourself more or less opposite the area where the pigs are feeding, remove your shoes, enter the field and sneak along between two rows of maize. Never hurry. If it is pitch, pitch dark take very short steps so your sense of balance is not upset. Now is when, if you are wearing the wrong clothing, you'll be amazed at the sounds never noticed before made by certain materials. They creak when you bend over or squat; they make noisy rasping sounds when brushed against plants. (An old track suit is the ideal clothing.) Stalk to within about 15m or less of the sound of the pigs and try to move into the same row where one or more are standing. If the moon is bright you'll see the pig, if there is only a bit of light you will see the white mane of hair. Aim a little low, as one is inclined to shoot a bit high at night with a shotgun or rifle with open sights. If it is really dark get within about 10-15 metres then squat, or kneel, and from the sounds try to judge where the front part of the pig is, then shoot. If the crop raiders are porcupines, you will hear the rattle of quills if one is fatally hit. Fleeing porcupines also make less noise than pigs, which crash through the maize and usually snort. As soon as you've fired step out of the furrow and stand on the ridge, otherwise you may be flattened by a pig using the furrow as an exit route.

Well, I followed this routine, never once suspecting I was stalking a man. He was extremely cautious duplicating bushpig behaviour because he needed to be as noiseless as possible and listen often, lest a crop guard was in the vicinity. Once I had made my stalk, was happy with the range and my estimate of the “pig’s” position, I squatted and fired. After the shot the maize thief uttered no cry but bolted wildly. With the barrel of the semi-automatic12 gauge, I followed the sound of his departure and very, very nearly fired again. As is said when sweat is wiped from the brow and a hand clutches the heart: Thank God I did not.

I returned to the road, could not find my shoes, dropped maize leaves on the road and made marks on the road with my heel so I knew where to return to in the morning walked to my vehicle and went home. I was in bed but not asleep when I heard a vehicle arrive and then a knock at the back door, which I opened to see Geordie and his son Bobby.

“One of my blokes says you’ve just shot him,” said Mr. McChlery without preamble. “Come and have a look.”

Mind striving to hold on to its moorings, I followed him to the workshop. There stood a skinny, middle-aged African with the feral, furtive face of a famished rodent. He was bleeding from his legs, which had buckshot holes in them. Weirdly, he suddenly smiled at me, his lips curling back to reveal his teeth, like a dog when it picks up a piece of meat covered in ants. I was a young man. I was disconcerted. Bobby, an affable fellow, had not said a word. Mr. McChlery was kneeling down, looking very stern and tending to the wounds. Then, to my relief, he looked up at me saying approvingly: “Good shot. If it had been a pig you would have got it. I’m going to fire this bastard.”

Years later, when doing problem animal control in Gokwe district, I mentioned this incident in a report to the district commissioner to illustrate the risk of shooting a man instead of a pig. The report was forwarded to the provincial commissioner who read it inattentively, became alarmed, and promptly contacted the D.C. asking: “But damn it all, what is going on? And where’s the man’s body?”

The point is, practice prudence if you pursue pigs at night - you may shoot something you don’t want to.

By Steve Edwards

Red Teeth, Red Claws and Bleeding Hearts

"You damn, damn hunter!" is an aspersion I have encountered. And why? Simply
because I am soothed by the sound of gunfire, nourished by carnage, and entranced
by the sight of a woman with her arms elbow-deep in a basin of bloody biltong. My
favourite song, of course, is “Sporting Rifle Blues”, as composed and performed by
Spunky Slaughter and the Machinegun Maniacs.

It is understandable that wrath and ridicule are piled upon certain pursuits and professions. For instance publishers, editors, literary critics, lawyers and politicians are justifiably reviled as charlatans. Yet what is to be made of that large body of opinion which depicts hunters as perverts who venture afield with the mindless, murderous glee of a lynch mob? Such opinion is an exasperating form of idiocy, but it has an amusing side. Led awry by rage, many critics have been lured into foolishly immoderate comments. Some of the most splutteringly irate statements reflect the buffoonery of fanaticism. Instead of stinging they tickle; instead of disturbing they delight.

Lunatics neither readily nor regularly succumb to reason. Neither do those who detest hunting. Hence hunters are under siege from legions of simpletons with simpering delusions of the lion and leopard lying down with the lamb. Food chains and digestive adaptations are a matter of evolution and no matter what is said in the Book of Isaiah, lion and leopard will not suddenly start living on grass. Whilst the bleeding hearts would have it otherwise, nature is indeed red in tooth and claw. Donald Ker (Through Forest and Veldt, 1958) encapsulated this intractable reality in a few sentences: “I once saw a pack of hyenas attack a wildebeest cow giving birth, and tear away the half-born calf. Not content with this, they proceeded to ravage the mother, tearing at her udder. She was attacked on all sides... and tom to pieces... Such acts of cruelty are a part of everyday life in Africa’s animal kingdom”. Graham Martin, in an introduction to the poems of Jules Laforgue writes: “think of the thousands of newly born turtles, hatching on the beach, as gigantic flocks of birds of prey gather, to feast on the young turtles... Nature is an unending massacre - a holocaust, Laforgue calls it.” And that is cold fact. Nature a la Walt Disney is the direct opposite of fact.

To comprehensively debate the morality of hunting would require book-length treatment, which would have to repeat wellknown facts and figures, and reiterate aphorisms dulled by usage. (“If it pays it stays. Use it or lose it.” etc., etc.) Those interested in serious considerations on the subject should read writers such as Jose Ortegay Gasset (Meditations on Hunting), Vance Boujourillay (The Unnatural Enemy), Ignatius Loyola - and also Ron Thompson’s books on wildlife management. This article focuses mainly on some of the more piquantly expressed fantasies and fabrications of those opposed to hunting.

In the now defunct South African magazine Personality (June 13, 1997) doctor and columnist Vernon Coleman un-bunged his heart and poured out this concoction of his dementia: “Most hunters claim to understand the countryside. They do not. Hunters - and hunt supporters - are barbaric heathens who simply obtain pleasure from killing...Those who support hunting have a similar psychological profile to criminals such as Jack the Ripper.” Presented without persuasiveness of reasoning or seductiveness of language, these remarks would be convincing only to a fellow fool and fanatic. For a man who preaches so self-righteously, Coleman has a shockingly unecclesiastical face. It is scoundrelly, sadistic and almost theatrically depraved. He looks like he would be ideal company on a murder spree. I wonder how the good doctor
would reconcile his sentiments with those of Dennis Nilsen, a maniac who murdered 15 people between 1978 and 1983. Nilsen stated: “I would be repelled by the shooting of crows and rabbits.” (Well, well. A softhearted, anti-hunting serial killer. Mind you, Nilsen was obviously a kindly man. After killing his seventh victim he laughed and informed the corpse: “You'll have no more troubles now, squire.”) Coleman is too tediously unimaginative to be entertaining. I think he is the person upon whom Tom Sharpe based a character in his novel The Midden (1996): “The man’s an absolute shit. He'll make your life a positive hell and go around having affairs with other fellows’ wives and losing money on something loathsome like greyhound racing. Goddamit, the fellow doesn’t even hunt.”

More colourful than Coleman is Kinky Friedman, a Texan who had some success as a country singer. Friedman also wrote several detective stories, in one of which, A Case of Lone Star (1987) he commented: “What great sport to be a hunter. Kill things more beautiful than you. Shoot birds that flew (sic) higher than your dreams. Kill many buffalo. Once in a while you clean your gun and accidentally blow your head off. Good.” A nasty little girl.

Where would we be, without the light-hearted relief afforded us by the lunatic fringe?