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Published: October 2nd 2008
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If the bullet enters through the head and combusts in the brain, I see the eyeballs of the impala are squished out of its sockets. If the bullet enters through the eyes, I don't see the eyes at all but a black space in the face. And if the bullet enters at the right part in the back of the brain, I see the brains actually a mess outside of the skull.
I met Micky while shooting the clay pigeons the other day, and I didn't know he was being serious about letting us come culling impala with him. Micky is a pretty normal looking man, perhaps around 35 or 40, large set with a belly and a great big Santa Claus beard and mustache. He wears a camouflage fishing vest outside a cotton plaid shirt as he did at the shooting range, along with a camouflage cap, forest green shorts, and black boots and socks. His face is slightly flushed with sunburn and he speaks with a deep voice, he looks the proper hunter part but is actually an extremely kind man if you know him. Dr. Tim has told us that Micky is one of the best shooters
in Swaziland and actually trains the rangers who work for Tim P, the man who runs the reserves and shooting ranges. The are both good friends of Dr. Tim.
Culling is the process of hunting animals in an effort to conserve the balance of wildlife in the reserves. Apparently impalas are often culled in Swaziland a few times a year, and tonight til dawn Micky is culling impala for Tim P. He has an order for impala and he describes to us the process of his hunting. After awhile though I wonder if it is actually culling or if it is just hunting, but either way with the reserve's blessing it doesn't matter.
We set off in a Land cruiser flatbed in a very dark night. They only cull on the absolute darkest nights of the month so that the animals are properly blinded by the lights. This also yields the best sky of stars in the month. The drivers sit in the cab in the front, and Rob and I stand right behind the cab with Micky and his silenced rifle on the flatbed. Behind us are four standing rangers wearing hats, long jackets, and big white
rainboots, holding large floodlights. I look down at my flipflopped feet and over to Rob's long beige pants dragging on the floor of the flatbed and wonder how stupid we are. I remember that in many of African reserves, poachers are a big problem. I've seen what happens when you come across poachers while hunting, and I ask Micky if poachers would shoot at other people. He says yes, but points in the cab where the barrel of an AK47 shines and says that poachers won't be a problem for our party. Micky and his rangers are also oftentimes the ones that hunt and track poachers themselves, poachers don't have a thing on Micky. I try to be comforted with this answer by visiting a mental image of Rambo with Micky's head smacked on.
As we drive through the game reserve the rangers flash around the lights into the bush. The identifying feature in night hunting is apparently the glisten of the animals' eyes. These guys though could tell passing eyes driving at 30 mph that they were hippos, dyka, wildebeast, you name it but things they didn't want. The impala eyes though seemed to glisten almost like a
shiny grey/yellow I think, although I couldn't tell the difference unless seeing one animal right beforehand to compare. When one of the rangers spots impala, the engine is cut and everybody stops breathing. Rob and I scramble around Micky as he flashes his torch attached to his rifle back and forth around the impala. When the light is shined directly at the impala's eyes, it freezes and almost doesn't move anywhere. At that point it is like a sitting duck, only 30 meters away. A minute or more can pass as Micky waits for the right angle past branches etc., and he aims right through the middle of the eyes. The silencer on the rifle really doesn't seem to do much, the rip through the sound barrier is still ridiculously loud. You hear a dull thud as the impala drops to the ground. If the impala was traveling in a group, Micky quickly tries to hone in on a bonus while it scampers off.
The rangers then jump off the truck and make their way past the barbed fences towards the impala. It is dragged back to the truck where lit by lights again they lay the animal behind
the rear wheels and slit its throat. Only it's not like slitting the throat of a human, fast and quick, but more so they sort of saw through the throat. The head bleeds out for a bit and you can hear a sound similar to a loud, light, long fart (really) as the jugular is emptied. With that, they toss the impala in the growing pile in the truck flatbed. As the night continues, I find myself being kicked by impala hooves.
Pools of blood gather at the back of the truck and under the pile of carcasses, and soon I find my toenails smeared with impala blood. Rob luckily is wearing red sneakers, but the bottoms of his beige pants are soaked in blood. I swear a couple of times when they toss another impala onto the pile, it almost topples over and comes too close to our feet standing at the front of the flatbed. I was worried I would fall backwards into a huge impala slumber party when going through the bumpy roads. I want you to really appreciate how little room there was for all these dead impala - this was a regular truck flatbed
with 7 people standing and a pile of animals about the size of myself. The blood actually looks very much like bright red acrylic paint, but the smell of coagulating impala blood mixed with the animal smell itself became a bit unpleasant after awhile. Looking longingly at the rangers, I wonder what kind of bargaining leverage I have for a pair of those white rainboots. Looking at my feet with cuts from thorns and bush all over them, I also wonder if there are any animal blood-borne diseases I have to worry about.
And so the night progresses. Drive, spot, shoot, bleed, toss... begin again. The pile grows bigger and bigger, longer and fatter blood rivers threaten my bare feet, and the smell becomes more and more pungent. What an experience to say the least. I tell Rob that I've never seen so much standing blood in my life. He says he has but it's never been without the smell of alcohol and hospital. I sort of apologize if this offends any animal lovers reading but not really, personally I'm not really sensitive to that particular cause and this night was really a good time and pretty fascinating. This
sure ain't something you can sign up for at the tourist office. Night-hunting impala will be making my Africa top 5 experiences. If you could see me, I would be dancing around with big eyes and throwing my elbows trying to snap my fingers while yelling "SWEET!" Fortunately you can't see me, and I actually can't snap my fingers by throwing my elbows anyways. I bought yet another camera (but not another SLR), so I do have some amazing pictures and video footage but as a big dickhead in Nelspruit took my laptop and my camera gear I can't actually load anything til December. Until then, use your imagination, and I'll be sure to send out some sort of reminder to check back on entries for the pictures when available.
At the end of the night we return to Tim's. The dogs can't stop licking Rob's shoes.
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