Hunt

Hunt

by R. Eric Swanepoel

(First published in "Left to Write" by Aberdeen Lemon Tree Writers,
Aberdeen City Council. Republished by Deliberately Thirsty Magazine,
Argyll Publishing, Glendaruel, Argyll PA22 3AE, Scotland, UK)

It wasn't the thrashing stump - fractured thigh bone projecting from
bloodied meat - so much as the little antelope's bawling which turned
the stomach... bawling just like a baby as the pathetic creature
ineffectually tried to flee through the withered mealie stalks, remains
of the leg dangling from a strip of skin. The men laughed.

A moment before she had been transfixed wide-eyed in the spotlight beam
held in the grubby hand of my erstwhile friend, Brian, who stood beside
me in the back of the pick-up, one hand grasping the bars on the back
of the cab. Perhaps infected by the macho culture of this Africa,
perhaps a little boy craving adventure, he had persuaded me also to go
on the hunting "expedition". I don't know what I had imagined, but not
this! Not the apparent glorying in gore as they blasted animals to
pieces with their shotgun.

In the back of the pick-up, apart from the growing pile of quivering
bodies and the blood, lay the other weapons: .303, .22, and air rifle.
It seemed the shotgun was by far their favourite, though - aim less
critical?

'Gaan vang hom, Jan!' The language was Afrikaans, though this was
English-speaking Rhodesia. Shona and Ndebele were black languages. One
of the men opened the cab and jumped out. A short chase down the beam's
path and he had caught the scrabbling mewling brute.

A brain shot, and peace at last? No. Laughing, he carried the duiker
back to us. Johannes held the screaming bundle on the dirt road, knee
on neck, and the truck rolled backwards, slowly. The crunch was audible
above the crickets and night-jars. Still the terror-shot eye was
swivelling in its socket. Not enough.

'Weer!' Again crunch.

No need to waste bullets.

The rest of that evening was a nauseous blur, but I do remember a
stately korhaan, a big-headed slow-moving ground bird, having its lower
bill shattered by a poorly-aimed pellet. Baffled by the spotlight, it
merely continued to pick its way pedantically forward, pausing every
few steps, not realising that its instinct-programmed insect-capture
walk was doubly futile now. A short journey.

Back to the bar, and leave the carcasses for the kaffirs to cut up.
Abundant biltong soon.

The hunters were "Coloureds", mixed race people with a dose of
Afrikaner blood and culture. They were foremen, up from South Africa,
working for my friend's father on the "secret" airstrip he was building
for the airforce, from which to launch punitive and "pro-active" raids
on the "ter" (terrorist) bases deep inside Zambia and Mozambique.
Our minds were full of ter atrocities: 'These people are animals...You
can take the monkey out of the jungle, but you can't take the jungle
out of the monkey... I'm not a racist, but...' Our actions were wholly
justified. It was inevitable that women and children were injured, but
then the ters cut off people's lips and forced them to eat them, before
shutting them in huts and setting them alight. How could they hope to
run a country?

This expedition was my first encounter with Coloureds - not many in
Rhodesia - though occasionally one saw the "poor" offspring of white
men gone native. 'He's a bit... strange - he lives with Africans!' one
was told with much significant eyeball rolling.

It was fortunate that one didn't meet too many Coloureds - the social
quandaries would have been enormous: separate cups like the garden boys
and house girls, or should one treat them like whites?

In the morning some of the carcasses hung, dressed, on a line at the
back of the kitchen, flies buzzing as the blood dripped. Strips of meat
had been cut from others, and were being salted before being sun-dried
to make biltong, the staple of long car journeys, and the justification
for the cartridges. Koffie had been hard at work. That wasn't his real
name I suppose, but it was easy to pronounce, and it suited the obese
African who did all the cooking at the accommodation block. His dignity
had shed the harangues of many shrill white women, and he tolerated
also the over-familiarity of Brian-the-boss's-son.

It was about six months later, I think, that Brian mentioned at school,
in an offhand way, that Koffie had died suddenly of diabetes, the
doctor thought.

No one had known he was ill.