Camping With The Afrikaaners

A departure from our scheduled Deep Discussion of Africa in general, to describe my weekend camping trip with a bunch of the Ghanzi district Afrikaaner crowd. [Some word-use clarifications at the end.] I'm going to warn you, (1) please don't judge, and (2) if you're extremely horrified by the very thought of hunting, please don't carry on.

I had planned on spending the weekend with F, possibly going horseback riding, then having a go at the Ghanzi nightlife (ha), when some friends of hers invited her to go camping for the night at one of their farms. Interested, I agreed to come as well. We loaded up her little car and drove to Ghanzi, then transferred our things to W's bakkie and drove off into the bush – in the end, 17 people showed up, but of those only two were willing to speak in English. Afrikaaners are a stubborn lot. F translated for me, but it felt aggravating and superfluous; every one of them could speak fluent or near-fluent English, but when they're all together you have to drag it out of them. I mean, far be it from me to demand that someone speak to me in English, but when F is spending time translating things that they could just as easily say to me in English, it makes fools of us all.

Anyhow. We turned off of the tar road just north of Ghanzi and trundled along the bumpy bush roads, passing through several gates before reaching the farm. I will never tire of charging through the bush in the back of a truck, metal bars scorching beneath my hands, wind whipping away the baking heat of the sun as I keep a sharp eye out for low-hanging acacias. Flipping my sunglasses on and off to look at things better. Catching the quick glimpses of hartebeest, kudu, springbok, duiker, as they dart away through the bushes. We drove through a thundershower and got soaked to the skin, and then turned down a narrower track where we disturbed a herd of about 40-50 wildebeest, lurching and awkward with their seasick lolloping gait, babies hurrying along beside their mothers. The few steinbok that had been grazing with them sprang off into the bush much more gracefully.

The campsite was at the edge of a big pan – empty but for the pump-fed pool in the middle, though sometimes it spans an area of about 2500 square meters. We threw down our mattresses and sleeping bags and started a fire. No tents, no bear-bags, no “leave-no-trace,” no silent contemplation of nature – just a big meaty braai and a bunch of farmers with guns. There was a remarkable variety of meat – from steak to ribs to boerewors (South African-style sausage... I suppose it means “Boer sausage”), to these strange little tidbits skewered on toothpicks, which I devoured before knowing what they were. Goat/sheep kidneys, wrapped in a strip of fat, as it turned out. They were, I must admit, delicious – although before they're cooked, they look incredibly disgusting. Possibly after they're cooked as well, but it was too dark to see. I'm concerned that I'm going to develop a taste for organ meats – unless you're desperate for vitamins, which I am not, I think they're quite bad for you. Oh well.

After dinner, someone hollered that we should go chasing spring-hares. (Click the link – it's not actually a hare, and it looks really strange.) A few of the guys had already planned on going off to hunt jackals, so in the end about half of the party eagerly piled into the back of a vehicle and roared off into the bush. “What do they mean, chasing spring hares?” I hissed to F, holding onto the side of the truck.

F, who is likely the only vegetarian in all of Ghanzi District, grimaced and replied, “Well, you'll see. We chase it down in the truck, and then someone jumps out and runs after it... Sometimes they kill it by beating it against the ground, but sometimes they let it go. I hope they let them go.” I hoped so too, especially since we'd just eaten the most enormous meal in the world, but let's face it – the wealthy Afrikaaners of Ghanzi District are not exactly subsistence hunters.

Soon enough we found one, bounding frantically along in front of the truck. Spring hares look like a sort of elongated, rat-like hare with a huge tail like a possum (they are often described as a cross between a kangaroo and a rabbit, but I think they're much more awkward-looking than either animal), and they can make good time on their huge, springy back legs – but they're not fast enough to beat a car. The first one was smart: when we stopped, it bounded away into the bush, and the young man who leapt out to chase it quickly turned back in defeat.

The second one was stupid. Panicked by the headlights, it ran into a little acacia bush and hid there, perhaps thinking it was invisible, but in fact pinned by the inexorable beam of a hand-held spotlight. Someone jumped out and snatched it out of the bush by its ears, then struggled for a moment or two to secure the legs. I was staring over the side, waiting with horrified fascination for the triumphant captor to beat the animal to death against the ground, but he just brought it over to the bakkie so that we could all look at it – eyes wide, legs kicking fruitlessly, bizarre tail thrashing in the air. One guy, sporting a moustache that would probably be illegal in America, and an equally illegal pair of short-shorts, bent over the side of the truck and bit a chunk off of the top of the spring hare's ear. He spat it out with great satisfaction. Laughing, the spring hare's captor tossed the poor creature back into the bush, climbed on the back of the truck, and we were off again.

Next stop: jackal hunting. I wasn't sure how we were going to find them – a jackal, after all, is a good bit smarter than a spring hare, and not as likely to be just running along the road. And it was very dark – no moon and a light cloud cover, so not even the stars provided any light. The night felt muffled, slightly humid. We drove to the middle of the empty pan, and stopped the truck. Everyone quieted down immediately, and I could hear the click of a tape deck starting up in the front. Then the most eerie moaning and wailing poured out of the cab, a piteous mewling and haunted cry of distress and longing. It was a jackal's distress call. First just one voice, then two and more blending together in an urgent disharmony that streamed out into the night air and across the pan, held in by the clouds, catching in the trees. I huddled against the side of the truck, everything dark, the two guys in front of me adjusting their hold on the guns they carried. A couple of girls in the back lit cigarettes and the cherries danced back and forth, occasionally illuminating dim glimpses of their faces. The smell of smoke billowed and dissipated, blending with the human smells in the back of the truck, the moist decaying odor of the pan, the scratchy dust-dry perfume of the bush with its lean acacias.

A moment of silence, and then a new sound began – less musical, less haunting. Grating to the ear, a high staccato of shrieks and bleats. Sheep dying or in pain, I was later informed. After the sheep noises there was another section of jackal calls, and then after about 15 minutes of this bizarre soundtrack, the tape cut off. The hunters stirred, quietly, and then someone in the front snapped on a spotlight and began carefully shining it in a slow circle around the bakkie, training it on the line of trees around the edge of the pan. One circuit, then another, with all eyes seeking the tell-tale green pinpricks of eyes, ethereal but unmistakable among the grey bush. Nothing. The spotlight clicked off and we all giggled a little, edgy.

The tape was rewound. Played again. Spotlight back on. This time they caught sight of a jackal, loping suspiciously along the edge of the trees. Perhaps it smelled us – perhaps it recognized the blocky unnatural shape of the bakkie waiting in the centre of the pan – but the call of the tape pulled it in, and it circled nervously, threading in and out of the trees. The hunters jumped down lightly and levelled their guns at its glowing green eyes, cocking their heads to peer through the scope and pin that sinister cross on the jackal's head. BANG! The report echoed across the pan, smoke puffed angrily and then blew away. The jackal trotted on. BANG! The second gun fired, but the jackal just looked at us, then turned and ran off into the bush. In the hollow, shocking silence left after the gunshot, I settled back into my seat on the truck bed and looked up at the hazy stars. The muffled whirring of the tapedeck started up, and soon after that, the agonized cries of the jackal.

We scanned with the spotlight about three more times, and spotted another jackal, but thankfully didn't manage to hit it. Some of the girls had already walked back to the campsite, so we stowed away the guns and trundled back over the uneven surface of the pan, back to the fire and the remaining coils of boerewors. A contrast indeed to the tracking and trapping skills of the bushmen (see entry “Hunting and Gathering”) - and a contrast indeed to my camping trips back at home in Canada! But all in all, good fun. Though too much Afrikaans.

...

Clarifications: a “bakkie” is basically any vehicle that has a front cab and a back section, roughly pick-up truck sized, or a bit bigger. A pick-up truck would qualify as a bakkie, but so would something with a completely enclosed back section, or a larger contraption with big metal bars built up around the back. Smaller than a lorry.

By “farm,” I do not mean agriculture. “Farm” usually refers to a property used for cattle and other livestock (but primarily cattle) – in Ghanzi district, farms are large, with artificial pans or water troughs, tangled bushveldt that the cows meander through alongside whatever wild game is living there. The farmers control the predators, and leave the herbivores. “Game farms” look essentially the same, except no cattle, lots of game. Occasionally a bit landscaped, for the fancier ones (areas of bush cleared for better viewing, more attractive pans, etc.)

I prefer not to go into lengthy and potentially embarrassing detail about my own and others' use of alcohol – but let's face it, a bunch of kids camping in the bush? Clearly there was alcohol involved.