We made our way to the airstrip for our flight back to Maun. While waiting for our pilot to pick us up, I met an old geezer who was pacing anxiously. There was a large chunk of flesh missing from his forearm, which dangled at an unnatural angle (an old healed wound with an unusual scar pattern, not an open bleeder). He extended his good arm and said, “Duggie Smith, pleased to meet you.”
The Duggie Smith of Great White Hunter fame, I asked?”
“Yep.”
This guy is part of the old time hunting crowd of Botswana from the early 70’s. I had read about him in that book, Cry of the Kalahari. According to local legend (a self-professed bar tale), his arm had been chowed by a lion while on a hunt. I didn’t know whether to shake his hand or throw a right cross to his jaw. This guy had undoubtedly been personally responsible for the death of hundreds of animals. Him and his best friend Lionel Palmer had founded the hunting safari industry here by taking rich American clients (mostly from the great state of Texas) into the Delta on shooting expeditions. What a guy! His initial excitement at being recognized quickly faded once he realized midway through our conversation that I was a hippie conservationist who despises hunters. Our little chat fell apart immediately.
Within a few tense minutes, our pilot brought down the golf cart and we piled in. I called shotgun and rode next to the pilot. I thought about the plight of that poor elephant the whole ride back.
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