Capstick was a stock broker turned hunting organizer turned (through a curcuitous route) to being a PH or professional hunter in Africa, and then had the skill and the will to set it all down. I have never had more riveting reading experiences than when he tells of having to shoot a big bull elephant (driven mad drunk after eating morula fruit) in bush so thick that he was actually 5 feet from the elephant before he saw it. Or of his friend Corporal Katwindi, the African tribesman who was killed trying to save his life. Or of stalking a black mamba that had killed a boy. This particular story includes the three most chilling words I've read in a long time: as he comes around a bend in the river bank, he sees the dead child (bitten on the lower lip) horribly swollen and disfigured, his face contorted in agony from the mamba bite. "Oh my, yes." Capstick says, and nothing else need be said. He was there, at that point where the line between life and death gets so horribly thin and transparent, and he's able to come back from it and tell it to you so that you feel the same goose flesh he felt, the same clutching fear, the same doubt about your courage, the same desire to run screaming back to your office job.
You'll laugh, too. "There may be something more exciting than lion hunting, but I don't have her phone number any more." Or the story of the African camp steward who had slavishly dedicated himself to learning English to impress the clients, (by overhearing phrases and memorizing their meanings) and while wearing a crisp starched uniform, snaps to a British salute in front of the distinguished safari couple and tells the lady "Tea is ready, darling." His ability to find, and bring back, wonderful humor from gruelling experiences, like when his skin basically rotted off his feet during the rainy season, will not soon be forgotten.
One of the most memorable aspects of his writing is his deep respect and affection for the African natives that he admired so much, and the few that he was proud to call his friends. He is quick to point out that any perceived inadequacies on their part are strictly cultural, not racial, and he was in awe of their abilities in their world. One old man could not, for the life of him, to save his soul, be taught how to flick a disposable cigarette lighter so that it would light. The little thumb roll that we do without thinking completely evaded him. His hands just wouldn't do it, couldn't do it. So he stuck it in his ear hole. This same man could smell elephants miles away and could track game over bare rock, could look at a broken leaf and tell what animal did it and when, leaving Capstick in awe. As impossible as the lighter was to him, this incredible oneness with the natural world was ultimately impossible for Capstick, and for us all.
That's enough for now. If you are reading this review, you probably already have one or more of PHC's books. But if, on the off chance, you don't, then do yourself a favor and get as many as you can, and I dare you to try to put them down. They are that good. Better literature than Hemingway? Probably not. Probably not as profound as Ruark. But he has them all trumped when your knuckles are white with fear, and beads of sweat pop out on your brow, and you try to remember...did I chamber one, or not? And there's a soft crunch in the leaves ahead, and then we're back to what is most elemental: predator and prey, and which of us is which is entirely up for grabs.
Thanks, Peter. Gone but not forgotten.