FOR AS long as I can remember, my ultimate dream was to hunt Africa’s Black Death. When I was at primary school my father bought a VHS tape called Black Death by Mark Sullivan and I can still remember how we watched it over and over again, the images fueling my passion and desire to pursue an old dagga boy in thick cover. It was my father’s dream as well, one which he sadly took to his grave.
Unfortunately the price of such pursuits was beyond my budget for quite some time. Ruark might have said, “A buffalo looks at you like you owe him money,” but with the price a buffalo hunt fetches these days, it might in fact be the other way around. So when a friend called to tell me he might have a good deal, I was all ears. Every man has their poison; some buy cars, others play golf – I want to hunt buffalo. Luckily I
