Editorials

By Duffy Ward

It all started as many hunts do, before dawn. A friend had volunteered to drive me to Dulles International Airport at 4:30 AM and he was on time. Into his SUV went the bows, suitcase and oversized duffel. Minutes later we were at the terminal. I thanked him for his generosity, not knowing how much more I would need in the weeks to come.

The trip from Washington to Atlanta, and from Atlanta to Johannesburg was mysteriously smooth. I had a little trouble getting my bows at the baggage claim, but all of the customs officials had left for lunch by the time I got in line and I waltzed right into the terminal. Dirk Schmidt, my P.H., was there standing tall and strong. He knew me by my ostentatious white “DUKE” hat. After months of E-mails I felt like he was already a good friend. “The Landrover is not far,” he said with a Germanic accent. And like that we were off to the Northern Province of South Africa. And I was feeling like a kid on Christmas day!

We arrived at Kwangulule just before dark. The concession was a dream come true. The view from our chalet overlooking the 3000 acre game farm was breathtaking. Dirk prepared the first of many sumptuous feasts while I frenetically prepared for the morning hunt. I couldn’t wait to see what my Parker Force-Multiplier would do with a 70-lb. draw and 70 foot-pounds of force. “What is the deal with all these terrorists in the U.S.?” Dirk asked. ””The true enemies of nations lie within their own borders”, I replied quoting Henry James. “Terrorists like Kazinsky, Koresh, and McVeigh represent paranoid schizophrenics who think the U.S. government is out to get them. They should all move to China if they don’t like America”, I said with a hint of anger. “Or North Korea!” replied Dirk with a chuckle. We had a tour of the farm and lodging complex with Willi, the landowner, and we hit the sack

“Big bull, big bull, gonna get a big bull” I uttered as Dirk introduced me to “rusks” with coffee and mueslix in the African firstlight. “I like your attitude”, he commented. “Attitude is everything”, I rejoined. Willi arrived and chauffeured us off to Hide #3. We brought everything we might need to stay put the entire day. We were greeted by an array of wildlife, once Dirk had chased an estranged baboon away. But when a herd of giraffe came by with an escort of zebra, our cover was blown. I had shots at impala and warthog but had those trophies from my first hunt. This time I was holding out for the heavy game. We hunted for twelve hours only breaking for lunch. We saw herds of eland and kudu cows the first two days but no mature bulls.

Then Dirk changed our strategy. We would leave behind everything but the bow, binoculars and a canteen. We would wear scentlocks head to toe despite the 100 degree heat, and apply scent killer liberally to everything else. We moved to a different hide,#2. Immediately the move produced a welcome change. The animals were now coming in to drink, including a nice eland bull. I thought about the shot but I wanted to hold out for Mr. Kudu. “Its not the arrow that kills the bull, it is patience”, I remembered telling my son. My patience paid off. The next day when the eland came trampling in, they had an another bull with them. This bull had heavy horns, a handsome boss, and a thick dewlap. I waited for a broadside shot. Dirk had warned me about how the shot would have to be nearly perfect because of the thick shoulder bones. And when I let the 20-yard shot rip, I thought it hit two far foreword. But the 70 pounds of force and the 145 grain four-blade Muzzy tipped 2219 Super Slam blasted through the giant cape eland’s shoulder. He lumbered about 75 yards.

We celebrated in fine fashion, but kept our attention focused on the hunt. Two days later, Dirk prepared a feast I will never forget. The Eland filets were five inches in diameter. He seared them on a hardwood fired grill and served them with sautéed mushrooms, baked potato, rusties, beetroot, boiled squash and a magnificent cape cabernet sauvignon. For desert, we lounged by the fire with a frozen bottle of jaegermeister.

Three days after my first kill, my second opportunity arrived. We had been seeing kudu cows and immature bulls daily. Finally, on day seven, one of the mature bulls dared to drink at the water hole. Once again, days of patience were necessary. I had passed up shots at many species, including a nicer blue wildebeest like the one I had hanging on the wall at home. Now I found myself looking at a beautiful animal with two full deep spirals and a sharply defined countenance. I waited until he drank, and took advantage of the 15-yard easy shot. That night, I was feeling so cocksure that I would get the four trophies I sought, that I changed my flight reservation to return home two days early. That would prove to be a big mistake.

The next day we returned to hide #3. Now we were really seeing game. I had the pleasure of watching a blue wildebeest gently spar with a young kudu bull and then see both of them booted out by an imperturbable herd of eland. Steenbok, duiker, blue monkey, sand monkey and at last, a waterbuck! Sadly, he left when a massive kudu bull arrived. Now it was decision time. Do I shoot bigger kudu with one already in the bag or do I wait for the waterbuck, nyala or gemsbok? I decided to wait. The sun began to set. “The night belongs to leopard, hyenas and jackals,” Dirk had said. He would not let me hunt until dark.

“Willi,Willi,Willi,” Dirk whispered into the walkie talkie. It would take Willi twenty minutes to drive to Hide #3. But he arrived in seconds! I felt my heart sink There had to be something wrong. He had been on his way to the hide already and it had to be serious for him to abrogate a hunt. At first I thought of my wife and kids. He jumped out of the jeep. “Four planes were hijacked in the United States. The World Trade Center has been destroyed, the Pentagon has been hit and thirty thousand people are dead!” We were numb. I remember when I learned about the assassination of President Kennedy. The nuns at St Matthew’s told us he had been shot and to pray. We went home early, much to our delight. It wasn’t until I saw my mother at the bus stop so distraught that she could hardly breathe that it finally hit home. Likewise, this tragedy was too big to believe.

I kept hoping it was a hoax. But when I saw the reports on CNN, I had to face the truth. Here I was in a foreign country, eight thousand miles from home. I couldn’t reach Jean, my wife, and my kids. I kept thinking about my friends who had worked at the World Trade Center and about my patients who worked at the Pentagon. What would happen next? With all the flights to the U.S. cancelled, how would I get home?

We decided to leave Kwangulume for Pretoria and stay at Dirk’s home. That night Dirk awoke me in a panic. “There is a brush fire nearby and we have to leave immediately!” he announced. Fortunately the fire abated before reaching the camp. The next day we packed up and left. Babs, Willi’s wife, presented me with a beautiful needle-point clock with a portrait of my kudu bull on it. She had stayed up all night to finish it for me. That gave me the first of many lifts I would need. She and Willi tried very hard to console me, being no strangers to terrorism themselves.

On our way to Pretoria, we were stopped at a checkpoint. The commandos insisted they were simply looking for weapon traffickers. Indeed, the ripple of the World Trade Center collapse had already spread worldwide. Later that day, we stopped at Mofenyi Taxidermy to drop off the mounts. Seeing this place was an eye-popping experience. Dirk had planned, no doubt, to provide a momentary distraction. Then Dirk took me to his home.

I would have gladly stayed at a hotel by the airport but Dirk would not hear anything of it. He took me under his wing, and he and his fiancée, Jenny, treated me like I was a favorite relative. The pain of the 9/11 Tragedy kept sinking in. But Dirk and Jenny counseled and consoled me through it. When I finally reached Jean on the phone, she reassured that everything was fine. How could it be? I really needed to get home to her.

The next day, a terrible storm blew through Pretoria, dropping the temperature 70 degrees. Even elegant homes like Dirk’s are intentionally drafty in Africa to let the heat out. This, of course, allows the cold in. South African Airlines had a hot line to call if and when flights would resume. I shivered with helplessness as the message remained the same; “All flights to the U.S. are cancelled until further notice.” I had plenty of time to admire Dirk’s many trophies and his magnificent collection of African art and antiques. Then Dirk prescribed a book by one of my favorite authors, Wilbur Smith. I delved into “The Leopard Hunts in Darkness” while he got back to his life.

Then the icy chill was broken with some good news. Flight 211 to Atlanta would leave on Thursday as planned. Dirk and Jenny drove me to the airport and helped me through ticketing and at last I was set to fly home. I thanked them for their unequaled hospitality and got a bite to eat. Then I waited for six hours to board. We were very upbeat as we waited for boarding. Hunters and sightseers eagerly exchanged stories in an effort to mask our fear and remorse. Getting home, that was all we wanted. Then out of the blue, a gate change was announced! I was thirty passengers from the front initially. Now there were thirty lines side by side and nowhere to breathe. After another interminable hour the door opened. Then the nightmare began. C-A-N-C-E-L-L-E-D appeared in big red letters next to “Atlanta” on the boarding screen. The crowd was dismissed in crestfallen despair. I followed the stunned throng back to immigration, back through baggage claim, back to weapons claim, and back through customs. We now would join the hundreds of passengers from the previous two days cancellations on the world’s biggest stand-by list. How on earth would I ever get home? With 800 passengers on stand-by and only twenty or so getting a seat, it would take forty flights to accommodate all of us. Trying not to panic, I called Dirk with my last rand. Once again he saved me, and raced the forty miles from Pretoria to pick me up and bring me to his home.

The following day I had to myself while Dirk tended to his business. I kept calling SAA and their hotline only to be rebuffed. I even called the U.S. Embassy and was told with maternal reassurance that everything would be fine and to please call back if I lost my passport! In between watching CNN and reading Wilbur Smith, I had plenty of time to think. How could anyone hate us this much? For almost twenty years, I have been working shoulder to shoulder with Muslim doctors and taking care of Muslim patients. I have always been impressed by their passionate regard for the sanctity of life. Where was Osama bin Laden when Slobodan Milosivich was butchering Muslims in the Balkans? Who was there? Scott O’Grady and the Americans were there. Where was Osama bin Laden when Saddam Hussein raped Kuwait? Who was there? Norman Schwartzkoff and the Americans were there. What other nation in history has willingly sacrificed the lives of her sons repeatedly to liberate other nations from tyranny? We may not be perfect here but this crime is not our fault. We have done more for the nation of Islam then bin Laden ever will. This is all about David Koresh with a turban.

I learned at dawn the following day that, unbeknownst to us, the Friday night flights to the U.S. went out as scheduled. They were reinstated at the last minute and went to the U.S. half full. I was sullen at the news. A golden opportunity gone. “Remember your philosophy about attitude”, Dirk reminded me as we raced to get ready for the long drive to Johannesburg International. “You’re right! Big ticket, big ticket, gonna get a big ticket!”, I chanted as we stormed out the door.

We arrived at the airport to find a small line at the ticket counter. We were told, “first come first serve” by the airline but this would not be the case. The agent put me on standby and assured me that my chances for a seat looked pretty good. Once again, I bade farewell to Dirk and thanked him. “You call me if you don’t get on”, insisted Dirk. How lucky I had been to hook up with Dirk.

I had a twelve hour wait until boarding. The stand-by seats would be assigned two hours before boarding. I checked my bags at the holding area and took off with Wilbur Smith to Zimbabwe and read about, what else, terrorism! I had some great conversations with some of the older passengers who had been on photo safaris. I was impressed by how calm they were. I guess when you’ve been through Pearl Harbor you learn to expect this sort of thing. We have a long way to go to conquer hatred, I thought to myself. SAA had set up a free food and drink stand at the information stand. I wasn’t hungry. Then the word circulated that stand-by passengers were lining up at the ticket lines. I got my bags and took off for the marathon!

When I arrived at ticketing, I could not believe my eyes. Hundreds of passengers with massive baggage carts had ensnarled the terminal. Not only was SAA blocked, but all the other counters as well. Everyone was choking their way forward inch by inch. After four hours of this I begin to feel faint, lamenting my decision not to take advantage of the earlier hospitality. When I slumped over my baggage cart, a woman behind insisted that I go over to nearby snack and get some sugar in me. With her watching my cart, I waded through the crowd. At the snack bar, I grabbed a drink and candy bar. I had unloaded all my rands on curios two days ago and the cashier would not take dollars. Great! I thought, now I need to change money. Then the manager came over and said, ”Just take it.” I reached for my dollars, “No! No!” he said. “Just take whatever you want.” I thought that I must have looked pretty bad. But minutes later, I saw a sight I will never forget. The manager emerged into the throng with a shopping cart overflowing with candy sodas, which he distributed among the masses. The charity really hit home. We knew that we were not alone, and that the South Africans had taken our tragedy into their own hearts.

Then the mayhem began. A woman with a bullhorn had raced through the crowd and grabbed everyone’s dead tickets. The stand-by seats would be randomly drawn and the passengers called up to blocked counters to check in for a seat assignment. As she announced the names, the winners screamed with the joy of a TV game show contestant. Her thick Afrikaans accent was indiscernible. This in turn led to a near riot as we abandoned our baggage to trail her. Slowly the mass began to shrink, as did my hope of getting a seat. Fortunately, my earlier calculations were way off. A lot of the ticket holders were African and Asian citizens, who were no longer so anxious to travel to the U.S.A. Nevertheless, she called fewer and fewer names as I felt my despair return. “Another one.” I read the lips of the man behind the counter. “EDVAARD VAAARD!”, boomed the woman with her bullhorn. “Yes!” I thought. The hunt is over.

The trip home was a story unto itself. But it seemed effortless compared to the trials of Johannesburg. And the whole ordeal is really insignificant compared to the plight of the real victims and their families. I will never forget how everyone bonded on the flight home. I will never forget the eerie quiet of Atlanta, and Dulles International Airport. I will never forget the painful silence of the dejected Muslim cabdriver who drove me home. I will never forget coming in the door of my home to meet my family.

This story is like millions of others resulting form the “9/11” tragedy. We all have one thing in common, we got through it. The terrorist may have knocked down the World Trade Center but we are still standing tall. Like all successful bow hunters, the word ‘quit’ doesn’t exist in our vocabulary. I will never forget the sunset at Kwangulule. I will never forget the generosity of Willi and Babs. I will never forget how Dirk and Jenny, and all the South Africans made my pain their own and did everything they could to comfort me. The terrorist failed to ruin my hunt as they have failed to ruin our spirit. We are buoyed up by the acts of kindness resulting from this tragedy, which give us new hope. Now it is their turn to see what they are made of, and to see what happens when you step on a cobra. Remember that it is not the arrow that kills the bull, it is patience. Good hunting, George.