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“Gomez” Adams

This chapter tells of some of the exploits of Derek Adams, a great friend, and his native servant Siapegwa. They were an incongruous pair who had the most intriguing relationship, one that brought lots of laughter to many of those who knew them.

Born in the town of Kadoma in the midlands of Zimbabwe, Derek “Gomez” Adams had been unresponsive to authority from an early age. Fortunately for his parents, his early love of the outdoors meant that he was more often out of the house than in it. Nevertheless, he proved impossible to discipline. That brought him into conflict with the strict regimentation of the Rhodesian school system.

An unhappy relationship with his teachers culminated in his trying to take a master’s head off with a blackboard duster, and he was asked to conclude his education elsewhere. His long-suffering parents received the news with great sadness, but Derek was rather pleased. Despite his age, he was happy to make himself immediately available to the Rhodesian army.

At the time, the Rhodesian bush war was escalating at a dramatic pace, and for a young man wanting action the Rhodesian Light Infantry was an excellent place to be. He made his way directly to their recruiting office. After a traditionally torrid selection and training process, which included a parachute course, he received his colors and entered the battalion’s Three Commando.

While discipline was very much an integral part of this corps, the realities of war demanded a calculated pragmatism. In the barracks, dress and conduct were very much along classical “spit and polish” lines, but in the operational area the unwritten code was to get the job done, and few other questions would be asked. That was a sensible approach, because it was a volunteer unit imbued with tremendous pride and esprit de corps. The soldiers generally performed of their own volition.

Although most of the troopers were more boys than men, they were quickly swept along by the zeal they saw in the older soldiers. In that environment Derek found a niche. His natural aggression and recklessness, combined with his knowledge of the bush, served him well, and he performed with great distinction. He was clearly not officer material, but he was a born fighting paratrooper.

The RLI had a reputation for failing to leave their aggression behind when they came back to their home base in Salisbury, the nation’s capital. Nightclub punch-ups with university students and any others perceived to be uncommitted to the country’s cause were frequent. Many members of the unit spent more of their ten-day “rest and retraining” time in police cells than anywhere else, but to them time was short: Their casualties were mounting, and they had all recently buried close friends. It was time to take life by the scruff of the neck and shake it. Wild abandon was the order of the day. Derek, who later acquired the nickname “Gomez” for his similarity to a player in a TV sitcom, thrived amidst the mayhem. Despite his lack of bulk, he found himself to be quick and effective with his fists.

The rest is history. The war ended, and Gomez, like so many of that generation, suddenly found himself in a world of boring, unchallenging normality and feeling a little like a fish out of water. Gone was the “live-for-the-moment” excitement of the life of the fighting man. In its place was the civilian world, with all of its mundane demands and expectations. It came as an unwelcome surprise. Sadly, many of these magnificent soldiers failed to make the crucial transition to civilian life and ended up rather tragically.

Rhodesia, in her prime, was the best-governed country in Africa. The public servants that staffed the civil service were extremely competent and virtually incorruptible. With the advent of Mugabe and Zimbabwe, that was soon to change, but in the early 1980s the Department of National Parks and Wild Life was still largely intact. After the army, it provided for Gomez, and quite a number of his comrades in arms, the next best alternative to the military.

He applied to join and was invited to an interview with the chief warden. His rather bleak history as a scholar took a little explaining, but the former soldier was clearly the sort of committed outdoorsman they looked for. The department accepted him as a cadet ranger.

The wildlife department was much like the military in that it was a disciplined organization staffed by men who were tough and demanding. But the rules were there for all to see and applied without fear or favor. Hard work was expected, and under often difficult circumstances. The staff was required to make the most of invariably antiquated equipment and to do so without complaining. But when the job was done, they gave it hell. There was a tremendous spirit of camaraderie amongst the field men, and they were extremely effective in the discharge of their duties.

Gomez graduated to full ranger, and after postings to a number of stations including the management unit at Umtshibi in Wankie National Park, he was sent to the northwest as PAC (problem animal control officer) for the area known as Gokwe. While at Umtshibi he was heavily involved in elephant culling operations and he conducted himself well.

As PAC officer he was in the role that every game ranger covets. His primary function was to deal with wild animals that were troubling the tribesmen in the area. That involved mainly crop-raiding elephant and lion and leopard that were killing livestock. It was a task ideally suited to him. With his scouts he was effectively a one-man mobile operation with free rein within his jurisdiction. He had a base at the research station in the Chirisa National Park but was pretty much at liberty to roam the vast area at will and deal with problems as they presented themselves.

At that time this particular part of the country was one of the last wildernesses in what had become Zimbabwe, and the BaTonga people who resided there were the most primitive of all the country’s indigenous peoples. A simple, pastoral people who clung to their traditional subsistence culture, they were the one tribe allowed by the previous white government to smoke mbanje—or cannabis, as it is more exactly known. It was considered so much a part of their culture that interference would have been counterproductive. The recent past had been hard on these people. The Zambezi River, along which most of them had lived, was dammed in 1960 to create the Kariba Dam, and that had forced them to relocate away from the rising waters to less accessible areas. Nevertheless, they remained of a very peaceful, albeit indolent, nature.

In the course of his work, Gomez came to know these people well and, in his somewhat perverse way, develop a real affinity for them. They in turn were greatly appreciative of what he did for them, and a happy relationship developed. In the course of events he befriended a local tribesman and took him on as a manservant. A slip of a man with unusually sharp features and busy eyes, he seemed permanently on the verge of all-out laughter. Like most of his tribe his vice was strong drink, of which there was never enough, and on acquiring access to it the man had a constitution that belied his slender build. But the speed with which he imbibed made it simply a matter of time before he would prostrate himself—which he always did with quiet aplomb.

The BaTonga people had never really worked for anyone and were, therefore, disinclined to conform to a life of organized employment. It was simply an alien concept. But for Siapegwa, destined for a relatively uneventful life as a peasant farmer, the chance to link up with the white man offered enormously exciting prospects. Simply riding in the back of a Land Rover was a huge step up in life. A uniform, shoes, and a radio were a hugely unexpected bonus. Access to drink was an opportunity from above. Furthermore, there were trips to the towns and cities that he would never have made in the normal course of events. His world became a very different place.

Gomez was typical of his generation in that he was taught from an early age to interact with the black people with whom he shared a country, to respect them, and where possible to help them—but to avoid taking the relationship into the realm of any sort of intimacy based on social equality. It was a fine line, but most white Rhodesians knew where to draw it. The notion flies in the face of contemporary attitudes toward race and equality, but that breed developed a healthy relationship and understanding with their indigenous countrymen, which is still evident today.

He could speak their language, understand their culture, fight and hunt alongside them, and laugh with them, but the two groups would always maintain a mutually respectful distance, streaked with no small measure of benevolence. His example constitutes a fascinating study of how white men and black men, from wildly disparate backgrounds and despite outward appearances to the contrary, can be mutually supportive and indeed thrive on one another’s talents and abilities. In a world obsessed with the prickly issue of race, this relationship constituted an excellent exhibition of trust and affection built upon the solid foundation that is born of honesty and the eschewing of hidden agendas.

Most factotums are kept busy with tasks like looking after clothes, cleaning house, and food preparation, but Siapegwa had little to do, for Gomez, being a man of limited means, had virtually no clothes, no house, and he ate anything placed before him that he felt would not make him ill. So, all things considered, there was not a lot for Siapegwa to do while awaiting tasks. But there were some interesting duties that, because of his lack of exposure to the outside world, he did not consider abnormal. A bizarre example was the cooling function he had to perform when in their base camp at times of oppressive heat.

Gomez owned five long-playing records that he treasured but were of little use because there was no electricity to operate the player. In the midday heat his pleasure was to disrobe, lie down on his camp bed, place a wet cloth or towel over his loins, and charge Siapegwa with the unusual task of vigorously fanning him. This task he was instructed to do by means of his master’s favorite long-playing record, which was by Led Zeppelin. Siapegwa would go about his duty with great gusto, knowing that once his man dozed off, he would quickly follow suit.

* * * * *

What the BaTonga people craved more than anything else was meat. Beer they brewed from millet and cereals, and vegetables they could grow, but protein had become a problem. When they had lived closer to the river, it had provided them with an abundant source of protein, but that was in the past. To add to their woes, the tsetse fly, carrier of sleeping sickness (trypanosomiasis), made it difficult if not impossible to keep cattle and goats in most parts of their land, so their access to livestock was also limited. As a result, when an elephant was shot, the word spread like wildfire and pandemonium broke out as those closest to the kill raced in.

Such was the feeding frenzy that when they came within grabbing range of fresh blood and meat, they would lose all control. Men and women would attack the carcass with pangas (long, curved knives) and machetes and would very often plunge bodily into the bowels of the carcass to hack pieces out from inside. On numerous occasions machetes sliced through from the outside inflicted serious injuries on people within. Severed limbs were common, and in some cases there were fatalities. Wounded participants, however, went unnoticed by their fellows in the midst of the feeding frenzy.

To avoid this carnage, Gomez decided that as a remedial process he would instruct the people to sit and wait while a small team butchered the animal. He would stand guard, rifle ready, keeping the famished horde at bay literally on pain of being shot. The craven assembly would have to sit patiently in the heat—sweat and saliva pouring forth—while the meat was carved up. But that proved an unsatisfactory attempt at a solution because being forced to view the object of their desire for hours served only to intensify their lust for meat. The butchering went off uneventfully, but distribution then became the problem. Asking the intended recipients to queue peacefully while awaiting a ration fell on deaf ears, and the moment the crowd sensed that the butchering was over, there was the usual mayhem.

Gomez then decided to try delivery by air mail. While compelling the crowd to remain still on pain of being punished, he tried lobbing pieces of meat into the crowd, but that lasted only a short time. Barely had the first piece of meat landed in amongst the crowd than there was a fracas, a scream, and one of the natives came hurtling out of the melee missing an ear. From then on he decided that his duties would be concluded upon the shooting of the animal.

* * * * *

One unfortunate fact of life for Gomez was the absence of women. Despite loud protestations to the contrary, the fact is that Gomez is no oil painting. But in the heart of the Siabuwa Tribal Trust Land, his failure to attract female attention could be excused. It was open to question how many white women had ever set foot in the place.

Thus it was that a friend seized upon the opportunity to unload a problematic woman whom he had recently met on a trip to the United States. Her name was Pam, and he had met her in a bar in Tucson, Arizona. She was a human rights activist who had been embroiled in all sorts of issues of a left-wing nature and held very strong views on the righteousness of socialism. She was the sort of person that an African hunter had little in common with, apart from the obvious fact that she was attractive and appeared to be as liberally inclined sexually as she was politically. That more than compensated for her politics.

Heavily under the influence of liquor, he had given her a card and told her that she would be welcome to visit him in Zimbabwe. Months down the line, much to his surprise, she took up his offer and arrived. That was inconvenient for him, and he was therefore anxious to find someone to take her off his hands, someone who would be more appreciative of the company. Gomez sprang to mind. Reached on HF radio, Gomez’s voice indicated extreme excitement. Arrangements were immediately made for her transfer to a nearer location.

At the appointed time and place, an eager ranger appeared duly pleased to take custody of his guest. They exchanged pleasantries, a very welcoming Siapegwa placed her bags in his old car, and the trio commenced the journey back to camp. The initial warmth, however, quickly dissipated. Once on the road the lady was quick to announce that she was unimpressed with what she had thus far seen of the relationship between whites and blacks. Further, she expressed deep concern at the fact that Siapegwa was riding in the back of the vehicle, that being a form of racial discrimination. She went on to tell Gomez with great pride about her work for the communist-backed Sandinistas in Nicaragua, her respect for leaders such as Fidel Castro and Daniel Ortega, and her other left-leaning tendencies.

For Gomez, that was like a red rag to a bull. A complete outsider, barely having put her feet down in the country, was telling him how to behave in his own backyard and smothering him with leftist claptrap. Little did she know it, but she was talking her way into dangerous territory. She was sounding suspiciously like the people he had recently been fighting, and he was aghast to hear someone from the United States spouting such nonsense. A vengeful and devious mind went into action. He accepted that the pleasures of the flesh would probably have to be dispensed with, but resolved nevertheless to rise to a higher calling. A quick chat with the ever confused but always obliging Siapegwa and a plot was rapidly hatched.

That evening, a table was laid for the evening meal, and Siapegwa was instructed to push his limited culinary skills to the limit. He produced a stew from some old buffalo meat, upon the arrival of which the lady declared her opposition to the ingestion of meat procured from the destruction of wild animals. Gomez seethed within but murmured an apology and tackled the mess in front of him. After chewing on the first mouthful for a full minute, he unceremoniously spat out the food, looked across the table at a disconsolate, slightly bemused human rights activist, and screamed out, “Siaaapegwa!”

A visibly fearful native cook came scurrying out of the darkness, clad in his best rags and with terror in his eyes. He bowed submissively in front of his white master with his head hanging abjectly downward. The lady visitor looked on askance.

“What the hell are you doing?” he screamed as he stood up from the table, shaking his hands in the air. The cook simply stood there, head shaking slowly, downcast and resigned to a horrible fate.

“Excuse me, Derek,” the lady interjected politely, but with pious conviction in her voice.

“Yes?” he answered abruptly.

“Why are you being so rude to this poor man?” she asked.

Siapegwa glanced furtively at her, giving her his most pitiful look.

“Because this damn savage is trying to poison me,” he shouted.

She could scarcely believe what she was hearing. There was a brief silence, then he punched the offending cook, knocking him to the ground.

“Useless BaTonga bastard!” he yelled. “I’m going to kill you for this.”

The liberal lady from Tucson was not sure she could believe what she was seeing.

“Leave him alone!” she screamed.

“You stay out of this,” he fumed, stabbing a finger at her. “This bastard’s going to die.”

Siapegwa lay on the floor, whimpering.

“Stand up, you bloody swine,” he shouted.

Siapegwa rose slowly, looking fixedly at his master with terror in his eyes.

Gomez spun him around, locked his left arm around his neck, and tightened the hold until his victim started to make choking sounds.

“Leave him!” she screamed. “Leave him, you bastard!” Tears of outrage were now streaming down her cheeks as she cried out for the cook to be saved.

“Get the hell back to Nicaragua,” he shouted, as he forced the unfortunate cook from the dining room, through the kitchen, and out into the dark to die. With much verbal abuse, pushing, and shoving, the condemned cook’s hands were tied behind his back with wire and a rope placed around his neck. Siapegwa’s sobs became more voluble as death approached, and in direct proportion the distraught lady’s wailing became more piercing.

“Shut up, you bloody bastard,” he shouted at the condemned man.

With that her wailing turned into a manic screech, and in a state of complete panic she fled into the night to avoid bearing witness to the hanging of a servant for producing a substandard dinner.

Just in case she was still within earshot, Siapegwa was ordered to wail with all possible gusto while imitating the guttural sound effects one might expect of a man having the life throttled out of him. When the two conspirators were in agreement that he was “dead” and that the desired effect had been achieved, the victim removed the wire and rope and sauntered off to bed. Derek returned to his meal. The sobs from the tent made his dinner sweeter. On his way to his tent, Gomez saw his distraught guest sitting on a chair with her face in her hands, weeping quietly.

“Last time he cooks a meal like that,” he mumbled as he passed.

“Bastard!” she screamed at the loathsome figure as it disappeared into the dark.

The following day the dawn was shattered by a loud shriek from the lady’s tent when the “late” Siapegwa entered with the lady’s morning tea, wearing a cheerful morning smile. She leaped out of her stretcher and feverishly embraced him. Not understanding a word of her rambling commiseration, he simply stood there staring past her while waiting for her to calm down. He walked away somewhat confused by all the commotion. No white woman had ever hugged him before.

It was clear to Gomez from Pam’s disheveled and vacant look that she had slept little during the night, and he suggested that she stay in camp for the day and take it easy. Such was her contempt for her host that Pam could not bring herself to look at him. She felt very confident that, given the means, she would have no problem inflicting grievous damage upon his person. All her thought processes were now employed in plotting how to see this particular white pig punished for his human-rights abuses.

Gomez left the camp with his scouts to do some routine patrolling and he told his men of the night’s events, which brought on great hilarity. The locals had heard that white people from over the seas were strange, and this seemed to prove that thesis.

Back at camp, Pam took great trouble to express to Siapegwa her deepest sympathies, her utter revulsion at how he had been treated, and her promise to report his employer to the U.S. State Department upon her return home. The intensity of her missionary zeal overwhelmed him, and his failure to explain adequately his lack of outrage was exacerbated by his inability to communicate with her. She would not leave him alone, and his irritation was such that he waited anxiously for the return of his Baas, in the hope that he would distract the lady’s attentions. Just why the silly white woman was so very distraught was beyond him. After all, he had been “hanged” by the Baas many times, and it was all in good fun.

Gomez arrived back late at night, by which time she had eaten and retired to bed, so by the time he saw her in the morning the tension had eased a little. Seizing the moment, he suggested that she accompany him on a drive. She accepted the offer, and, although there was little discourse between them, she thoroughly enjoyed the beauty of the country and the elephant and buffalo they encountered. Her hatred for her abusive host was undiminished, but she could not fail to be impressed by his knowledge of the land and its animals. She wanted to ask more questions but held back for fear that he might gain the impression she was in any way impressed with him.

On their return she found herself, almost unwittingly, having a very open discussion with him about life in general but more specifically about the problems of race and how they should be tackled. She was perplexed to find that he was not quite the demented bigot she had thought and was in fact quite knowledgeable on a number of issues. It didn’t all add up, but she found herself relaxing, albeit reluctantly, in his company. The ambience, however, was about to change: “Did you enjoy the tea?” he asked politely.

“Yes, very much thank you, Derek,” she responded with an unusual smile. “In the States we seldom drink hot tea. It is a pleasant change.”

“You know,” he said earnestly, “I did too. I think Siapegwa needs to be rewarded for producing such a fine beverage.”

The sincerity in his eyes pleased her. The ogre was in fact showing welcome signs of kindness. Such was her relief that she felt a brief urge to jump up and embrace him. Her rush to judgment had obviously been premature.

“Siapegwa,” he called.

“Yes, Baas.”

“Come here, please.”

Siapegwa came scurrying in with a look of happy expectation on his face.

“Siapegwa, this is very good tea you have made for me and our visitor,” Gomez reported.

“Thank you, Baas.”

“I want to reward you.”

Siapegwa nodded his head vigorously. Expectation was clear in his eyes.

“What is for me?” His face glowed. Pam looked on with pleasure, her faith in her host redeemed.

“Do you want to be a white man, Siapegwa?” Gomez asked.

A frown drifted across Pam’s face as she struggled to make sense of this question.

“Yes, please, Baas,” Siapegwa eagerly replied. He now knew what the plan was. This was also a road previously traveled.

“Are you sure, Siapegwa?”

“Yes, I am sure, Baas.” A big smile lit up his face.

“Bring the paint, Wilson,” Gomez shouted.

Almost immediately the tracker arrived with a tin of white enamel paint, the sight of which caused Siapegwa to remonstrate. But his clothes were removed amid howls of protest. Then he was painted white and congratulated on having made a rare transformation. The lady from the United States gave vent to absolute outrage, then went back to sobbing as she tried to absorb the full horror of what she had just seen. This latest act of lunacy, she swore, would not go unpunished. Gomez promised Wilson, a game scout, that, one day, when he learned to make a decent cup of tea, he too would be eligible for similar honors.

The final straw in the lady’s ordeal came when Gomez noticed that he had run out of Mazoe Orange, a local cordial used to mix with water. Siapegwa was dispatched on a three-day bicycle ride through country heavily populated by wild animals to journey to the town of Kwekwe to replenish the bottle.

The next day Pam made contact with a research officer from the nearby station, who took her back to Bulawayo, from whence she returned to the United States. Just what went through her mind on her way home is not known, but if she had discovered a new and worthy cause, she never returned to tackle it.

* * * * *

It had been some months, during which Gomez had been out on various deployments hunting mainly crop-raiding elephant, when he received a report of a lion killing cattle at a pan known as Mandiboni near a village complex some distance from where he was camped. His mood was not good. He had been looking forward to a trip to town but had to respond, so Siapegwa and the scouts were instructed to pack and load the vehicle. With little enthusiasm, they headed for the settlement. Arriving after nightfall, they laid out bedrolls and went to sleep.

At the first hint of dawn, a parade of distraught villagers presented themselves, duly pouring out their tale of woe and imploring the ranger and his scouts to dispatch the marauding killer that was decimating their livestock. It was not only the physical threat that troubled them. Marauding lions inevitably carry with them the fear that they may have been infiltrated by hostile spirits. If the attacks continued, there would inevitably be recourse to a witch doctor, who would identify one or more members of the community as having been bewitched; that might result in expulsion or worse. The assembled were desperate to have the threat removed with all possible haste.

Cattle killers, invariably aware that they are dealing with humans, are inevitably wary and cunning. Very often they kill only once in an area before moving on. Dispatching them is almost always a tedious affair.

When one of the tribal elders insisted that he could show the ranger fresh tracks, Gomez was only half-listening. It all sounded terribly familiar. In his own mind he was pretty certain that it would take days of hunting and baiting to find the culprit, but he agreed to go with the old man to look at the spoor.

With Siapegwa, Sergeant Petros, and Game Scouts Wilson and Amos, the hunting party set off. Gomez was sure that it would be a while before any sort of encounter took place, and his preparation was tardy. He armed himself with a light caliber .270 and simply assumed that the scouts had the other, heavier weapons and that they were in good working order.

Somewhat unexpectedly the old villager took them to a carcass, and it was clear that the offending lion had fed that night. The tracks were fresh, and the light Kalahari sand made following them fairly easy. Despite the signs, Gomez was not unduly alert. He believed that the lion would put a substantial distance between himself and the kill and that they would have a long slog ahead.

After four hours on the spoor, they were tired and thirsty. The sun was directly overhead and the heat was oppressive. The soft sand underfoot made walking difficult, and there was little shade. Gomez was shuffling along rather listlessly when a loud warning hiss from Siapegwa brought him to a halt. He turned to see him mute but pointing vigorously at something ahead.

“What the hell is it?” Gomez asked irritably.

“I have seen something,” Siapegwa answered nervously.

“Well, what the hell have you seen?”

“I don’t know, but I have seen something.”

Gomez shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, and started walking again—when to his surprise he, too, saw movement. At the moment he recognized that it was a lion, an excited chorus behind him whispered, “Shumba, shumba” (lion, lion). It was in fact a lioness, and she was hunkered down on her belly, her mouth slightly ajar and her yellow eyes blazing unblinkingly with aggression. A faint wisp of dust appeared behind her as her tail twitched nervously in the sand.

Quickly gathering his thoughts, the ranger went slowly down on one knee and brought the .270 to his shoulder. Aware that his weapon was light but confident in his marksmanship, he drew a bead on her chest and fired. The response was unremarkable. The lioness grunted, spun into the air, and fled. A well-hit lion will often do that, and Gomez was confident his shot was on target. The bullet, he felt sure, had been on course to a lung and would soon have fatal effect.

“Wena chiele lapa nyau” (You have hit the leg), Siapegwa insisted, slapping his lower leg. The remark irritated Gomez.

“Mena chiele ena mushe” (I have hit it well), he replied assuredly.

The uppity manservant received a withering glare. Unwilling to risk increasing his master’s ire, he simply accepted Gomez’s word. Gomez noted that the rest of the team also appeared uncertain as to his shot, but he dismissed them, too. He set off decisively for the point where the lioness had been sitting. Upon arriving there, he was a little troubled to note only very small spots of blood, followed by isolated droplets along the tracks of the rapidly departing beast. While he was concentrating on the ground, a scream broke the silence.

“Shumba ena buyerie!” (The lion is coming!)

His error was instantly apparent to him when it became clear that, low to the ground, a blur of lethal yellow fury was hurtling toward him with malicious intent. He raised the rifle, pulled the trigger, and the metallic click deafened him as the weapon misfired, failing to discharge. Tossing the useless weapon aside, the besieged ranger reached hurriedly behind and grabbed a shotgun from the scout—but that too made a resounding click as he tried to hurry off a round.

With that the lion launched at him and the shotgun became a club, but to his utter dismay it splintered and snapped as the butt broke on the animal’s skull. Now defenseless, the master of all he surveyed turned and ran with scant decorum at top speed to the nearest tree. It did occur to him that he was engaged in an exhibition lacking in a certain level of professionalism, but the avenues open to him were few. He would deal with the loss of stature at a later date in the unlikely event that he survived.

According to the official government accident report subsequently submitted by the sergeant, the lioness then “smashed” Game Scout Wilson to the ground with a single blow and “proceeded forward to Ranger Adams.” The wording in the report clearly belies the pace of the chase and the ensuing pandemonium as the scouts looked on helplessly for fear that a shot from them would go awry and hit what was now the hunted rather than the hunter. Having abandoned the broken shotgun, Gomez had managed to recover the malfunctioning .270.

In the accident report, Petros writes with masterful understatement: “I then saw Ranger Adams hit the lion on the back with a .270 rifle, and the lion smashed him and he fell down. He [Ranger Adams] quickly woke up, and the lion woke up, too. Ranger Adams ran to the tree.”

At this point Gomez put a large mopane tree between himself and the enraged lioness. For a moment the two stood opposite, staring into each other’s eyes: The human terrified out of his wits, the animal intent on murder. The lioness then proceeded to pursue the ranger at great speed around the base of the tree. At one stage, such was her fury that she stopped to maul the tree. Mopane is extremely hard wood, and Gomez looked on in terror as splinters exploded out of the trunk under the pressure of the predator’s jaws. This demonstration of leonine power left him in no doubt as to what was in store for him. His knees shook so hard he thought he might fall to the ground.

The report continues:

“He [Ranger Adams] was shouting to me on several occasions saying, ‘Sgt. Petros, shoot it!’ and I was replying to him that the rifle had jammed. That time Ranger Adams was trying to catch the lion’s tongue using both arms. I then shouted to Scout Amos to bring a big .375 rifle. He then had to shoot from the north side.

“I shouted to G/Scout Amos, ‘Do not shoot, you are very far.’ I then ran to take the rifle from Scout Amos and ran back to the scene. The lion had now caught Ranger Adams by the leg.

“I shot the lion, and the lion fell. Then Ranger Adams woke up trying to run away, and the lion woke up. Around the tree they met, Ranger Adams fell down, then the lion opened its mouth to catch his head. At the same time I shot the lion with the second bullet. It made a small cut in the head because of my shot.

“I heard Ranger Adams’s voice inside the mouth of the lion. I pulled him out, and some seconds later another two lions came straight to us. We frightened them with the jammed rifle.

“I then made first aid. I have his shirt and Wilson’s shirt. I went back to our base to collect the radio and vehicle, and I then had a breakdown on the way. I took the radio with me to the scene because there was no communication with Wankie at that time, 1400 hours. Later we got communication to Wankie Main Camp to contact Warden Conway at Chirisa Safari Area, to make arrangements to collect Ranger Adams.

“We carried him to the nearest village, about five to seven kilometers away. That is the place where we met Warden Conway. He was taken to Chirisa Safari Area.”

Gomez recalls:

“I remember grabbing for his tongue and trying to pull it out of his mouth, but he bit me so hard I lost interest. Then he had me by the arse and I could feel him tearing at my bum and my leg. I felt his hot breath up my rear. I was shouting to Petros, ‘Shoot! Shoot!’ Nothing happened. He was battling to get in a shot that wouldn’t take me out, too. I thought I was finished. Then he did fire and it took off, but the next moment two of her mates arrived. I thought it would never end, but they fired again and saw them off. Then Petros fired once more and dropped the lioness. She was huge. I lay there thinking it was time to die.”

As an exercise in how not to hunt lion, this one was about perfect. Everything that could break down did, and it was in fact only luck that Warden Tony Conway was airborne in that very area at the time and that the distress signal was received. But for that, the redoubtable Gomez would almost certainly have perished.

His wounds were extensive and required massive skin grafting. In a fitting tribute to the thickness of his head, one of the cat’s incisors broke off and was left imbedded in his skull. Not considered a pretty sight before this incident, he was left looking decidedly worse afterward. He recalls that when the lion bit into his head, “It made a sound like eating sadza (grits) with sand in it.”

Little sympathy was forthcoming. There was a possibility that his right leg would be amputated (though ultimately it was not), so he was relieved of all his right shoes. Siapegwa brought him a bunch of blackjacks to put in a vase next to his bed. The only book delivered to his bedside was When the Lion Feeds by Wilbur Smith. We are told that when Pam (back in Tucson) heard the news, she expressed delight.