Winning Travel Tales

It was a close run thing, but the winner of our Travel Week, travel tale competition who gets a wet of Craghoppers new Nosquito insect-repellant and UV-protective clothing, a shirt and trouser set from the Barkhan range is OUTDOORSmagic member Rob Sutherland for his work in conserving rare animal species... Runner-up was Grant Carstairs who met a pussy cat in Africa.

Rob Sutherland's Winning Tale... 

It was back in 1995 that I found myself out in the northern part of the Amazon basin, an adventure set up under the guise of zoological research. The team that I was a part of were enjoying life living and working alongside a tribal village that we were absorbed into during our stay.  

One day we heard from one of the villagers that there were rare dwarf caimens out in the mountainous country in Guyana so a few of us set of in a traditional Amerindian hunting party to see if we could find some of these crocodilians. We set of as normal along the main, well, only road in the area in our borrowed United Nations Landcruiser until stopping at a seemingly random part of the road.

Off we went into the jungle to an old hunting camp deep in the jungle, with nerves on edge after hearing reports of a "bad tribe" in the area. The tribe that held that area as a part of their territory were said to be untouched by the west - and to make matters worse, cannibalistic. I wasn't entirely convinced that we weren't being wound up, until the Amerindian leading the group ordered traps to be set up around the camp! These involved bows placed in a frame work, drawn back with poisoned arrows in place and held with a trigger attached to a trip wire... at human chest height! This really set us on edge as you can probably imagine!  

The first couple of days passed uneventfully, but weevils had destroyed most of the food we had with us so we decided to try some fishing! After a brief lesson in using a bow and arrow to catch fish we felt pretty competent and set off along the banks of a creek through the jungle. I was with a young lad from the village when we saw what looked like a big fish breaking the surface before dipping below. We could just make out the long slender shape under the water that looked about a foot long - this was going to be a great moment for me and would boost my reputation with the hunting party. I drew back the string on the short bow and loosed the meter long arrow at the shape. It struck home and we grabbed it in glee. This is where it all went horribly wrong! On pulling the arrow up from the water we didn't find a fish on the speared on the point, it was sunk into the nose of a black caimen.  

Black caimen are a rather different ballgame from the Dwarf variety that we were after at the time, these are the brutes of the South American waters, and this one wasn't a particularly small specimen. We estimated that it was somewhere in the region of 15 foot in length after the event.   As the head came up from the water the eyes fixed on us and all hell broke loose. The head thrashed to the side and the tail started whipping the water and we.... turned and ran for it. After a few seconds I remembered reading somewhere that crocodilians are able to move at a fair pace on land, seeing a tree with conveniently low branches we saw our salvation.  

It seems as though we were up in the tree for ages, with an agitated carnivore lying below waiting for revenge. In reality it was probably only five or ten minutes. After it gave up the wait we returned to the camp to tell our story. The second blow hit then, as we were supposed to be studying these magnificent creatures to protect them, we shouldn't really be harming them in any way. That night we were out down the creek with a flashlight looking for a caimen with an arrow in it's nose! On seeing it we managed to noose it and get a sack wrapped around it's head. Several people sat on it's back and we removed the arrow before treating the wound with antiseptics as best we could. The amerindians were in hysterics watching this as we risked life and limb to treat a large and very aggravated creature! Fortunately they are pretty docile when there eyes are covered so we were able to ease away following the treatment with no further incidents!  

We returned to the camp to be rewarded for the entertainment with a bottle of bush rum - a vicious brew made in the jungle by the Indians. As the ribbing about the days event intensified so did my inebriation until I eventually fell into a drunken slumber.  

It was certainly a day I will never forget, the day I shot a croc with a bow and arrow.....

Grant Carstairs - Runner Up

As the battered old landrover trundled off along the dusty track into the African dusk, we smiled to one another, a mixture of contentment at this once-in-a-lifetime travel experience and smugness at having fulfilled our insatiable Scots need to pay less than others for the same thing.

We were plonk in the middle of the Serengeti on a chartered safari, but, learning that a night's stay in the State Hotel would cost us an arm and a leg, we had decided to get the driver to drop us at the house of a couple attached to the Serengeti Research Institute. This was on the recommendation of a friend who assured us that they would welcome us with open arms, provided we brought them something that they couldn't get in the bush. So, armed with a dozen eggs and a bottle of finest Tanzanian wine, we approached the front door.

Now, as we stood on their porch in the fading light, we were gradually struck by the realisation that it might have been wiser to check and see if anyone was at home before enthusiastically despatching the landrover. Peering into the gloaming, it was obvious that this was the only habitation in the area, tucked up tight at the base of a koppie, a rocky wooded knoll typical of this landscape.

Two other things soon became quite obvious. The first was that no-one was in, and the second was that the place was bolted up and sealed like Fort Knox. For whatever reason, you didn't leave your key under the mat around here. A few minutes passed, during which we speculated on whether they'd nipped out to the Serengeti MacDonalds or were down buying a lottery ticket from the corner shop.

We were both studiously avoiding discussing the 'they're not coming back tonight' scenario, becoming increasingly aware of the night sounds of crickets and other small beasts, when the low growl of fairly large African feline echoed from somewhere up on the koppie. "Hairy head, pointy teeth, deep voice, keen appetite" I thought, as I went through my well-honed animal-identification process. "It's a frigging lion!" whispered Fran, just to confirm that I was right.

A few moments passed, during which we looked at one another and exchanged hushed views on what we might do in this kind of situation. That was a fairly short conversation. Moments later, a second roar split the night air and it felt considerably closer. Looking around, it was very clear that there was no door left on the latch, no windows left ajar.

To our increasing alarm, there didn't even seem to be any outbuildings or other hidey-holes. There wasn't even a chair so I could do my circus lion-tamer routine in the few minutes we had left before we became dish of the day. We both froze, apart, that is, from my sphincter, which suddenly seemed to be developing a mind of its own. It struck me that crapping on your hosts' porch, especially when you've never met them before, is probably not the best way to create an initial impression. I pondered this for a few moments, but was distracted by the fact that Fran, judging by her posture and expressions, suddenly seemed to be reverting to the religious phase she'd given up as a teenager.

A third, very loud, roar echoed round the compound, the sound bouncing off the large boulders of the koppie. A few other creatures of the night responded, their noises obscured by the resonating sound of our maned friend. Given our predicament and options, it now occurred to me that an arm and a leg for a night at the State Hotel maybe wasn't such a bad deal. The roar seemed to meld gradually into another sound which I couldn't quite put my finger on.

Seconds later, we both became aware of a set of vehicle headlights approaching up the track and the new sound became identifiable as the labouring clutch of a motor that's been driven in dusty conditions for too long. As the asthmatic pickup truck ground to a halt, we leapt off the porch to greet our rescuers. When you live in the African bush, I guess you get used to the sights and sounds of all manner of wildlife hanging about your front door.

I guess you're not quite prepared, however, for a couple of bug-eyed Scots backpackers jumping off your own verandha at you, quaking, frothing at the mouth, indiscriminately tossing raw eggs about, and gibbering incoherently while pointing at the surrounding blackness. If it was me, I wouldn't let them in the house!