Cent’ Anni

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Preface

Of all the past lives I’ve lived, the only one that seems worth writing about anymore is my stint in East Africa. I was in my early 20s, and for five years I gallavanted around filming big game hunts, writing stories, and shooting 35mm film for myself. There was little tying me down or restricting my complete freedom other than the occasional “visa misunderstanding” at rural border checkpoints, a road being erased by early monsoon rains, or an extended stay in camp because the bush pilot couldn’t find the airstrip and had to turn back to refuel. Some of the happiest years of my life were also some of the most dangerous — on account of my apparently unbreakable habit of getting involved in Cape buffalo hunts. Though I was holding a camera instead of a gun, I was every bit complicit in the demise of some 50 buffalo, give or take. Many of them were uneventful — perfect wind, perfect shot, bull going down easy. But there were plenty that didn’t go well: a bad shot led to tracking them for five miles, the wind changed and we became the hunted, or worse, a wounded bull would hide in the thick stuff to make one final death charge. Those are the types of buffalo hunts that people write about, and they are also the type of hunts where bulls kill people. This story, my first Cape buffalo hunt with a gun in my hand, is that kind of story. 

Enter Lupo Santasilia. Born of Italian blood in Costa Rica and raised in Zambia and Tanzania, Lupo is a man of the world and speaks English, Italian, Spanish, French and Swahili fluently. He has lived a life of high adventure, romance and culture, has a weakness for women and a volcanic temper, but has a heart bigger than most I know. We met some seven years ago, shortly after his father Emilio had passed away — his best friend, mentor and hero. Lupo’s spirit was broken, and as we spent more time together, I learned that it had been a dream of his father’s to climb Kilimanjaro. It was also a dream of mine, so I offered to take some of his ashes to Uhuru Peak. It’s a story worth telling another time, but in short I made it to the top, and at 19,341 feet I scattered his remains to the winds to be carried down to the great plains beneath the rooftop of Africa. Lupo and I have been like brothers ever since. Perhaps that is why he insisted on being the one to guide me on a lifelong dream hunt. It would be amidst Maasailand in Northern Tanzania, a place I had been many times, and we were joined by Jens Heig, a contributing editor of Modern Huntsman and a dear friend. He had helped me — and continues to help me— through countless difficult situations, and I had made him the promise that I’d take him to Africa for the first time. So we packed up our gear and headed into the bush for a short three days of intense, hair-raising hunting. 

Jens 

Despite an early rise, I didn’t sleep on the way in. There was too much to see, especially as we crossed into Maasailand and Mt. Meru shrank in the distance. Shrouded by clouds, it felt ancient. It was. Maasai sauntered along the road, tending to goats and cattle. Maybe Tyler was a safety blanket, but I felt comfortable here, and despite how foreign everything seemed, was not intimidated. The real story was Lupo: beyond what I thought he would be based on Tyler’s descriptions, so much character and animation, cursing in Swahili every time his phone rang, which was nonstop. Crude, yet gregarious, a combination that  has allowed him to survive. You did not want to cross him. He laughed often and loved to call people “cunts.” A wonderful host, though , hardened by dangerous animals and clueless clients. Upon our arrival at camp, the rain worried me, as it didn’t look like it would relent. 

II 

Tyler

Every morning we’d rise before dawn and pilot the Land Cruiser through mud and mire, dodging thorny acacia bushes in the dark so we didn’t get scratched and bloodied, or worse lose an eye, until finally we’d reach a landform bigger than a hill that was not quite a mountain. Scrambling to the top, we’d wait for the sun to break the horizon and burn off the reluctant mist so we could start our search for buffalo. Sitting there, binoculars in hand, we’d watch the world wake up. Then, as if they emerged from the ground itself, the herds would appear in the hundreds, like black masses of power and muscle and bad tempers. From this seat atop the plain, we’d make our plan for approach and pursue them on foot. Three days is not much time to properly hunt Cape buffalo, but it was all we had, and we took the best chance with the best bull we could find. We had some incredible encounters, some of them too close for comfort, but in the thick acacia brush your only option was to get very close. We found two lone bulls that were a bit too young, so we told Jens to creep closer to get some photos. He looked terrified, and rightfully so, because we’d intentionally been telling him stories of people getting gored for no reason other than the fact that Cape buffalo were cantankerous. I figured it would heighten his sense of adventure, but when the bull took a few steps toward him, it looked like he might shit his pants. Mission accomplished. We backed off slowly and had a good laugh. 

Jens

We did not speak unless we needed to. The light was blue, heavy and silent. Our tracker Patson whispered in Swahili that he’d spotted two buffalo. Tyler and Lupo loaded their rifles without words, and my heart rose to my throat. I fell in behind them, critiquing every footstep I made and silently cursing each unnecessary sound. Lupo gave hand signals that I had never seen and yet had clear meaning. We closed the gap. A quick back and forth between Lupo and Patson determined the bulls were too young to be shooters, so Lupo signaled me ahead to take photos. My breathing stopped. Not thirty yards away the bull stood, fully aware of us, posturing like I’d read about in books: head raised, staring straight, curious and daring. I did not know how much closer I wanted to get without a rifle in my hands. As he stepped forward, my heart sank. Lupo muttered under his breath, “I dare you to charge, you fucker. I fucking dare you. I’ll drop you in your tracks.” We backed off and moved with haste, but didn’t turn our backs on them. An embrace was shared between Tyler and Lupo, like they had gotten away with a crime. They were trying to test my nerve, to see if I could handle the close encounter. Fuckers. I stepped away with a profound respect for that animal.

III

Jens

Spotted a big herd from Glass Rock. It began to rain, a deluge. I wish I had something more profound to say about it, other than that it was beautiful in a soggy, miserable kind of way. Total diligence is required. You cannot relax in the bush, or lose focus from fatigue, hunger or thirst. Everything is hostile: plants, insects, animals, trees, weather, even water. We called it off with little light remaining and another downpour imminent. It was wise. The rain did not subside until morning, but our spirits were still strong. For dinner, we had Grant’s gazelle, and wow, what a delicacy! Africa, despite its harshness, was kind to me. 

Tyler

The rain squalls came in droves and moved quickly. You could see them coming for miles, like giant dark curtains suspended over an expanse, with the rest of the sky still a sparking blue, the birds still chirping. As they descended, the torrents were all-encompassing: the dry, cracked, red-earthen road became a complex patchwork of muddy canyons, ditches turned into streams, ponds turned into lakes, and rivers turned into a humbling display of surging, raw power. We would get completely soaked in seconds. In the evenings when it cleared and the last rays of a setting sun broke through the clouds, a deafening chorus rose as flying ants swarmed outward to find new breeding ground and the excited chatter of swallows answered as they feasted on the clumsy, easy prey. Here in Africa you must take the chances you can get, as sometimes the window of opportunity is small, and so life bursts forth suddenly, vibrantly and even violently. It’s quite beautiful to behold.

IV

Jens

The rain had left the land lush and green, though the clouds and fog hid the bush from us. Rain carved new gullies into the roads, the soft earth clung to my boots, and the smell of rotting leaves hung sweet in the air. Here, life carries on, rain or no. We returned to Glass Rock, the secrets of the morning being pried away ever faster with the dawn, its warm rays dancing orange between remnants of the great storm that passed through the night. Below camp, a great herd of buffalo ambled undisturbed, their black shapes peppering the green and orange panorama before us. It was not long before we were among the satellite members of the herd, the yellow light bathing us before we walked into the shadow of the great hill behind camp. My long, heavy breathing replaced the second hand on any clock we wore. On the move, it was clear that the crack of a rifle would shatter this morning as Lupo moved us from bush to bush. 

Tyler

It was the last day to get it done, so we were extra careful about selecting a herd to pursue. We found a nice bull with beautiful deep curls in his horns, and though we would’ve preferred to find his decrepit old father, we decided that it was the best we were going to find with our limited time. Just as we prepared ourselves to move in, the wind shifted, and the herd spooked and stampeded away. We gave chase, running at full speed under cover of thick brush, and as soon as we reached a clearing our tracker Patson set the shooting sticks, and I tried to get settled as quickly as I could. I was heaving from the sprint; my ears were pounding and the crosshairs were dancing. “There he is, shoot!” Lupo shouted. I followed his haughty Italian directive and pulled the trigger, but it didn’t feel good. Lupo could tell from the look on my face. “Piga mzuri?” Patson asked. I shook my head, and as the adrenaline wore off, it was replaced with an unpleasant mix of doubt, disappointment and awareness of danger that likely lay ahead. The sparse drops of blood confirmed what I already knew; I’d hit him too far forward and he hadn’t gone down. Shame, regret, self-loathing. I felt all of these at once, knowing full well how it played out from here. 

Jens

The herd of black thunder retreated into the bush but left none behind, and it was clear that Tyler shared the same apprehension as me. We searched for blood without success. I could feel Tyler’s shame. We all knew that tracking a wounded buffalo is dangerous as hell. Patson fetched a single blade of grass among the thousands, which carried the sign that we hoped for and dreaded — blood. The tracks led us through the open bushland and brought us before a dark green wall of thicket. We passed through a tunnel of thorns into an opening no larger than a sitting room. Then another grunt entered the air. The air was heavy, and a terror of horned bulls lay in wait, concealed until they made themselves known with belches of discontent and crashing branches. We froze. They were very close, and I could see their wiry hairs protruding from their dark, grayish-black hides, like acupuncture needles. For such large creatures, they would lie remarkably still, not rousing until we were only 10 yards from them. My survival seemed to rely on absolute silence, which became difficult as I found my lens hood to be an inconvenient bell that scraped and rattled against branches. 

V 

Tyler

We tracked him for three hours, through countless death traps, bush mazes and thorn thickets. We bumped the herd every time, and they ran farther each instance, the sounds of their crashing through the brush narrating my loss of hope. We never caught a glimpse of the bull, and it had become clear that it was impossible. Lupo made the call to turn back and try to make a new plan, possibly even try to spot him from the ridge. Dejected and dehydrated, I muttered, “Naomba maji Patson,” and he handed me a lukewarm bottle covered in the red dust of Maasailand. I drank it in silence and replayed the past few hours over and over in my head. Morale was low, the mood morose, and it felt like the hunt was over. I’d be going home without a buffalo, and would have to put the dream on hold for another time. The forest quieted down, my heart rate slowed, and I started to accept the reality of the situation. At least we knew the bull wasn’t hurt — just another scratch on an already-marred facade, so that was good.

Then the silence was shattered by the guttural grunt of a buffalo bull about 50 yards behind us. “Twende pole pole,” Patson whispered, so we crept slowly to a clearing. I set the sticks up and readied Lupo’s father’s rifle for a second chance. “It’s him, shoot! Shoot!” I fired once, Lupo fired twice, and all hell broke loose. 

We ran after the herd, doing our best to read the ravaged ground for blood signs or bull tracks as the dust started to settle in the distance. We found blood, but the tracks were a mess. We pursued them through incredibly thick brush, and came to a clearing. We walked 20 yards, then Patson stopped abruptly, waving his hand frantically. He spun on his heels, pointed behind us and shouted, “Nyati kule!” The bull had doubled back and was waiting for us to make his last stand. He grunted and stood up to charge. I ran to my left to get a better shot. I emptied my magazine, and Lupo sent his final .500 grain solid bullet into the beast as well. My borrowed .375 H&H and  Lupo’s .458 Win Mag stopped him in his tracks. He fell to the dirt and let out his death bellow.   

Jens

The sun grew in intensity with its position in the sky, and after exhausting ourselves through terrifying close encounters with buffalos in the bush, Lupo decided to move on and retreat to camp. Fate, in all its mystery, had led us to this point. We gave chase, and once again I was preparing myself for the depths of the bush and its paranoia within when Patson made us double back. His incredible instinct determined that our bull was not among those that fled. Not 30 yards behind us, on the edge of the bushes, his dark body was just visible through the leaves, lying in wait, as most wounded bulls do. Tyler’s feet danced as his rifle sang its death song. The slugs kept the great animal in the bushes and its deadly horns away from our fragile bodies. Relief flooded my soul as the buffalo’s lifeforce escaped its broken body. The end was quick and unceremonial, as many hunts tend to be. Looking back, it feels like that forest took something from me, or maybe rooted itself to my consciousness in a way that I cannot explain. I now see why one journey to Africa cannot satisfy those who recognize the wild, primal nature of this land. Never before had I felt so vulnerable — my mortality was in the hands of animals of which I had little knowledge. 

Tyler 

Not long after, the rest of the crew showed up to celebrate and help us break the buff down. As we sat on a field of victory, drinking Kilimanjaro beers and smoking rough-ass Tanzania cigarettes — Sportsmans, to be exact — the doubt and disappointment melted away. It was a full-circle moment, as I had killed my first Cape buffalo with Emilio’s rifle, as so many others had before me. We never met, but I think he’d be proud. This was not lost on us, and it was an emotional experience. Another chapter in my unique friendship with Lupo. 

We told Jens he needed to be extra thankful that he hadn’t gotten gored by the wounded buffalo, given that he was at the rear of our tracking party when that bull decided to charge. He took a huge swig of beer and we all laughed — you have to have somewhat of a dark sense of humor to truly enjoy Africa. 
“Cent’Anni!,” Lupo shouted. One hundred years!—a traditional Italian toast, and one that his father had used many times. Our bottles clinked and we drained what was left, then started the long, triumphant journey back to camp. It was as much of a classic buffalo hunt that I could’ve hoped for, and we feasted on its backstrap for dinner. It was an African Thanksgiving I’ll never forget. A past life no more, this buffalo skull will now be an heirloom in my family to pass down for generations to come.