Then, because of corruption in the game department, I crossed the border, continued to hunt clients, and put my anti-poaching skills into practice in Tanzania. While in Masailand I was guiding a German named Thomas Straff, and one night after a day’s hunt for lesser kudu we were relaxing at the campfire. My waiters were about to give Thomas a jar of honey for his wife in Germany when their conversation was suddenly interrupted by the distant thud of a fired muzzleloader. They looked at us and simultaneously cursed – Majanjile! – Poachers! …
We were in dry semi-desert country with thorn thickets that in places arched overhead. We were hunting for a record-book lesser kudu. Our hunting block was declared out of bounds to villagers by the game department because of the poaching, and the scouts were given an incentive: for each poacher arrested and successfully prosecuted, the scouts were paid a handsome bonus. Yet each day in the early morning, my tracker on the back of my vehicle would point to fresh bicycle tracks made during
