Category: Some Red Hot Gospel there!
Nothing’s better than meeting the “real” people inhabiting the faraway lands we travel. I love picking up local customs, foods or drinks from them. Upon returning home, I fondly remember my new friends while enjoying these new habits. It’s been a few months since my trip to South Africa and figured it was time to share a few memories with you.
I was invited to the Buffalo Bore Game Preserve in South Africa by Tim and Kim Sundles for a cull hunt and product field test this past February. It was a most memorable trip, far exceeding my expectations. You’ll be reading more about the trip in future articles, as one article could never do the trip justice. During my visit the Sundles’ hosted a braai, Afrikaans for barbeque, or cookout.
It was here I first met Kobus and Elise, neighbors living on the other side of the mountain. Just hearing the name Kobus, pronounced Qwi-biss, conjured visions of a colorful character in my overimaginative mind. Kobus did not disappoint, living up to my expectations.
When first seeing Kobus, you notice his ruggedly handsome face full of character from a lifetime of working outdoors. The weathered look is testament to years of hard work tending his flock of sheep and goats while working his farm to support them. Like farmers everywhere, Kobus is loyal to his land, work and family. Being married 40 years is further proof of his loyalty.
Unfortunately, rain forced the braai indoors. A lovely meal of pork ribs and several side dishes were devoured as we adjourned to the fireplace for cocktails. Young Chris Jonker, the impressive Game Preserve PH and farm manager was also there.
As expected, the conversation steered towards guns, hunting, local animals, past hunts and funny stories. It was an enjoyable evening to be remembered, so much so, Kobus invited us for a quick visit the next day to show us his guns. Oh Boy! What a treat!
Comin’ ‘Round the Mountain
Mid-morning, we loaded into the “bakkie” — the Afrikaans word for small truck — and headed for Kobus and Elise’s farm. We drove up the rough and winding roads to the top of the mountain. There, an adjoining fence separates the two properties. What used to take a two-hour drive for visiting now takes a mere 45 minutes because the Sundles’ and Kobus agreed to put in a gate to shorten the drive.
Coffee & Guns
Kobus is a third-generation sheep/goat farmer and still drives his ’81 Toyota pickup. I told you he was loyal! He’s also a dedicated hunter and fisherman. His living room is full of trophies proudly displayed on his walls. He also has numerous photographs of successful hunts and fishing trips. As Elise served coffee, Kobus would go to his gun room and return with a different rifle.
It should have been no surprise to me, but Kobus has a wonderful collection of top-grade rifles. What really impressed me was the glass he had mounted on them, for he spared no expense. Brands such as Leupold, Swarovski, and Schmidt & Bender were represented, displaying Kobus’ knowledge for quality guns and scopes.
German Roots
Two of Kobus’ older rifles really caught my attention, both being “sporterized” Mausers. One was a 9.3X62, showing extremely skillful metal work, especially on the rear sight. The other was an older Mauser chambered in 7×57, aka the 7mm Mauser.
This gun was used in the Boer war of 1899-1902. It’s said the British knew the Boers to be accurate out to 800 meters but were deadly out to 1,200 meters. Looking at the precision rear sight, long sight radius and fine sights on Kobus’ rifle, it’s easy to understand how this was accomplished.
It was a wonderful visit. Seeing classic, vintage rifles, as well as Kobus’ modern rifles were icing on the cake. His mounted trophies are a testament to his hunting skills and knowing how to shoot his rifles.
True Hunter
Kobus told us he hunts every season for each species during the allowed season. He also hunts other species on farms having a fencing certificate, so he is allowed to hunt year-round. One of his most memorable experiences was hunting in the snow in Hungary.
It came about when a friend brought a Hungarian gentleman and his son to shoot a Mountain Roebuck on Kobus’ farm. They ended up spending three days shooting kudu, impala and a blesbok as well. When it came time to pay, Kobus refused any money.
Payback
The father and son were so taken by Kobus’ gesture they invited him to Hungary for a hunt. Kobus really wanted to shoot a red stag, which he did, along with a fallow and Roe deer, Mouflon sheep and several beautiful pheasants.
Kobus told us he had a wonderful time! Being January, it was mid-winter and was -15 degrees most of the time, but the tough weather only added to the adventure. It was a trip to remember — one he thoroughly enjoyed! Kobus has also been fishing for tiger fish in Zambia.
Rusk Baker
Besides running the household, Elise bakes rusks (coffee treats) every day, supplying five home industry shops in Port Elizabeth, plus supermarkets in Cradock, and supplementing the family income.
A rusk is the anglicized term for biscuit and is a traditional Afrikaner breakfast meal or snack. They have been in South Africa since the late 1690s as a way of preserving bread, especially when travelling long distances without refrigeration, having a 16- week shelf life. Rusks are popular in coffee shops around the world.
Take time out to travel to the places you’ve always dreamed of. You’ll never know who you’ll meet along the way. As for me, my 1998 Chevy Tahoe has become my bakkie and I now have braai’s instead of cookouts. Rusk’s have become a staple with my morning coffee as I re-live the fond memories of my visit to South Africa.
I was a 35-year-old medical student with a wife, three kids and zero resources. We were so poor we got reverse taxes. We actually looked forward to April 15th every year — not so much anymore.
Thanks to my amazing wife, some generous parents and God’s Divine Providence, we still had a warm, safe, nurturing home despite our rather remarkable dearth of material goods. Were I being completely honest, this was arguably the best time of my life. We got Domino’s pizza every 6 to 8 weeks, and it was indeed an epic event. Such relative rarity makes the sweet things taste all the sweeter. At one point, however, we found ourselves in need of a vacation. Our humble circumstances mandated something cheap.
My bride figured it out. We would catch the Amtrak in Jackson, Mississippi, and do a long weekend in New Orleans. The train ride down would be fun for the kids, and we found inexpensive accommodations. As Amtrak is federally subsidized, the fares were reasonable, even for all five of us. New Orleans has a great zoo, the National WWII Museum, and lots of good food. It was shaping up to be a memorable family adventure.
The train ride was indeed a blast. We pulled over onto a siding to make way for a passing freight and spotted an alligator. By the time we rolled into New Orleans, we were ready to explore.
America’s train stations were, in general, built many decades ago and sited in the most vibrant parts of town. Now, more than half a century later, what used to be thriving is often no longer. The train station in New Orleans looked like something out of Mogadishu.
We were all young, fit and naïve. I couldn’t afford a taxi, so we resolved to just walk all the way across the city to our modest hotel. With our luggage on my back and three kids in tow, the Dabbs family struck out on foot to experience the Big Easy in August.
New Orleans in summer is Africa hot. It is also covered in a thin patina of homeless people. However, I worked in an inner-city hospital and appreciated that most of these folks, though they might look a bit intimidating, were actually pretty harmless. Regardless, I am armed whenever I am not asleep or in the shower, so I wasn’t unduly concerned about our safety.
My six-year-old son clung dutifully to my right hand as we made our way through the squatters’ camps and detritus of squalid urban living. Considering this was a fairly unfamiliar world to my kids, they just soaked it in. Then my son asked me innocently, “Dad, what’s wrong with that man?”
I followed his tiny index finger to the object of his curiosity. This guy sat motionless on the sidewalk, his back leaning against an abandoned store front. His clothes were tattered, and an empty wine bottle stood on the concrete beside him. Despite the blistering heat he reclined backwards in brilliant direct unfiltered sunlight. As I looked more closely I could see flies crawling in and out of his nose.
“Well, son,” I said. “That man is dead.”
My man-child was instantly mesmerized. He had never before seen a dead man and was now overcome with curiosity. I found myself in a bit of spot.
We couldn’t afford a cell phone. I had no idea what the protocol was if you encounter a dead wino on the streets of New Orleans. It seemed somehow uncharitable to just leave him there. As I began searching about for somebody who might have a phone or a business that might yet still have a landline, a squad car pulled leisurely up to the scene. A big cop stepped out, walked up to the dead guy and softly kicked him in the foot with his boot. Predictably, the corpse did not respond.
“Yep, call the meat wagon,” the cop shouted over his shoulder to his partner in the car. “This one’s done.”
My son took one long, last, fascinated look, and we headed on our way. Now some two decades later my children don’t remember the New Orleans zoo, the WWII Museum or the food. However, from now until the sun burns out they will never forget finding that dead guy. Kids are like that. His was the Big Chill in the Big Easy.