SA AND LAOS TO SIGN AN AGREEMENT TO PROTECT AND CONSERVE RHINO

The signing of the MoU will be accompanied by the endorsement of an Implementation Plan putting into immediate action concrete steps to, among others, eradicate wildlife crimes through government-to-government and security initiatives, educate the public and raise awareness.

Follow the link to view more http://bit.ly/18SGGK5

Rhino Poaching Update

#RhinoPoachingUpdate: The total number of rhinos poached in South Africa since the beginning of the year has increased to 461. Since the start of 2013, a total of 288 rhinos have been poached in the Kruger National Park. A total of 51 rhinos have been poached in North West, 47 in Limpopo, 41 in KwaZulu-Natal, 31 in Mpumalanga, 2 in the Eastern Cape and 1 in Gauteng.
Of the 137 alleged poachers arrested, 60 have been caught in the Kruger National Park. Five people have been charged with being receivers.

South Africa cannot continue to be held hostage by the syndicates slaughtering our rhinos, said Water and Environmental Affairs Minister Edna Molewa.

South Africans are urged to report incidents of poaching and tip-offs to the anonymous tip-off lines             0800 205 005       ,             08600 10111       or Crime-Line on 32211.

For media queries contact:

Albi Modise
Cell:             083 490 2871

      

Jock Of The Bushveld by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick (Chapter 27)( Page 2 ) His Duty

There were two small windows looking out on to the yard, but no door in the back of the building; thus, in order to get into the yard, it was necessary to go out of the front door and round the side of the house. On many occasions Tom, roused by the screaming of the fowls, had seized his gun and run round to get a shot at the thieves; but the time so lost was enough for a kaffir dog, and the noise made in opening the reed gate gave ample warning of his coming. The result was that Tom generally had all his trouble for nothing; but it was not always so.  Several times he roused Jock as he ran out, and invariably got some satisfaction out of what followed; once Jock caught one of the thieves struggling to force a way through the fence and held on to the hind leg until Tom came up with the gun; on other occasions he had caught them in the yard; on others, again, he had run them down in the bush and finished it off there without help or hindrance. That was the kind of life to which Jock seemed to have settled down. He was then in the very prime of life, and I still hoped to get him back to me some day to a home where he would end his days in peace.  Yet it seemed impossible to picture him in a life of ease and idleness--a watch-dog in a house sleeping away his life on a mat, his only excitement keeping off strange kaffirs and stray dogs, or burrowing for rats and moles in a garden, with old age, deafness, and infirmities growing year by year to make his end miserable.  I had often thought that it might have been better had he died fighting--hanging on with his indomitable pluck and tenacity, tackling something with all the odds against him; doing his duty and his best as he had always done- and died as Rocky's dog had died.  If on that last day of our hunting together he had got at the lioness, and gone under in the hopeless fight; if the sable bull had caught and finished him with one of the scythe-like sweeps of the scimitar horns; if he could have died--like Nelson--in the hour of victory!  Would it not have been better for him--happier for me? Often I thought so.  For to fade slowly away; to lose his strength and fire and intelligence; to outlive his character, and no longer be himself!  No, that could not be happiness! Well, Jock is dead!  Jock, the innocent cause of Seedling's downfall and death, lies buried under the same big Fig Tree: the graves stand side by side.  He died, as he lived--true to his trust; and this is how it happened, as it was faithfully told to me: It was a bright moonlight night- Think of the scores we had spent together, the mild glorious nights of the Bushveld!--and once more Tom was roused by a clatter of falling boxes and the wild screams of fowls in the yard.  Only the night before the thieves had beaten him again; but this time he was determined to be even with them.  Jumping out of bed he opened the little window looking out on to the fowl-house, and, with his gun resting on the sill, waited for the thief.  He waited long and patiently; and by-and-by the screaming of the fowls subsided enough for him to hear the gurgling and scratching about in the fowl-house, and he settled down to a still longer watch; evidently the kaffir dog was enjoying his stolen meal in there.

Jock Of The Bushveld by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick (Chapter 22)( Page 1 ) The Old Crocodile

We reached the Crocodile River drift on a Sunday morning, after a particularly dry and dusty night trek.  `Wanting a wash' did not on such occasions mean a mild inclination for a luxury: it meant that washing was badly needed.  The dust lay inches deep on the one worn veld road, and the long strings of oxen toiling along kicked up suffocating clouds of fine dust which there was seldom any breeze to carry off: it powdered white man and black to an equal level of yellowy red.  The waggons were a couple of hundred yards from the river; and, taking a complete change, I went off for a real clean up. We generally managed to get in a couple of bathes at the rivers--real swims--but that was only done in the regular drifts and when there were people about or waggons crossing.  In such conditions crocodiles rarely appeared; they prefer solitude and silence.  The swims were very delightful but somewhat different from ordinary bathes; however remote may have been the risk of meeting a crocodile when you dived, or of being grabbed by one as you swam, the idea was always there and made it more interesting. Being alone that day I had no intention of having a swim or of going into the open river, and I took a little trouble to pick a suitable pool with a rock on which to stand and dress.  The water was clear and I could see the bottom of the pool.  It was quite shallow--three feet deep at most--made by a scour in the sandy bed and divided from the main stream by a narrow spit of sand a couple of yards wide and twenty long. At the top end of the sand spit was a flat rock--my dressing table. After a dip in the pool I stood on to the sand spit to scrub off the brown dust, keeping one unsoaped eye roving round for  intrusive crocodiles, and the loaded rifle lying beside me.  The brutes slide out so silently and unexpectedly that in that exposed position, with water all round, one could not afford to turn one's back on any quarter for long.  There is something laughable--it seemed faintly humorous even then--in the idea of a naked man hastily washing soap out of his eyes and squeezing away the water to take a hurried look behind him, and then after careful survey, doing an `altogether' dowse just as hastily-- blowing and spluttering all the time like a boy after his first dive. The bath was successful and ended without incident--not a sign of a crocodile the whole time!  Breakfast was ready when I reached the waggons, and feeling very fit and clean in a fresh flannel shirt and white moleskins, I sat down to it.  Jim Makokel' brought the kettle of coffee from the fire and was in the act of pouring some into a big mug when he stopped with a grunt of surprise and, looking towards the river, called out sharply, "What is it?" One of the herd boys was coming at a trot towards us, and the drivers, thinking something had happened to the oxen, called a question to him. He did not answer until he reached them and even then spoke in so quiet a tone that I could not catch what he said.  But Jim, putting down the kettle, ran to his waggon and grabbing his sticks and assegais called to me in a husky shouting whisper--which imperfectly describes Jim's way of relieving his feelings, without making the whole world echo: "Ingwenye, Inkos!  Ingwenye Umkulu!  Big Clocodile!  Groot Krokodil, Baas!" Then abandoning his excited polyglot he gabbled off in pure Zulu and at incredible speed a long account of the big Crocodile: it had carried off four boys going to the goldfields that year; it had taken a woman and a baby from the kraal near by, but a white man had beaten it off with a bucket; it had taken all the dogs, and even calves and goats, at the drinking-place; and goodness knows how much more.  How Jim got his news, and when he made his friends, were puzzles never solved. Hunting stories, like travellers tales, are proverbially dangerous to reputations, however literally true they may be; and this is necessarily so, partly because only exceptional things are worth telling, and partly because the conditions of the country or the life referred to are unfamiliar and cannot be grasped.  It is a depressing but accepted fact that the ideal, lurid--and, I suppose, convincing--pictures of wild life are done in London, where the author is unhampered by fact or experience. "Stick to the impossible, and you will be believed: keep clear of fact and commonplace, and you cannot be checked."

Letter received from Carita Neethling of Life Church (Cape Town)

Hi Dean, Verity and Mark

Chatted to the team and they LOVED the safari. They said you were the best hosts and they enjoyed every moment of it! Thank you so much for the good job that you did! You really blessed not only the team, but also me. It makes my life so much easier knowing that people like you are taking my team around and spoiling them.

I am looking forward to doing business with you in the future!

God Bless


Regards
Carita Neethling