Set in southern Namibia, Great Namaqualand, ‘Bittersweet Karas Home’ is the story of three families, the Hills, Walsers & Hartungs, whose lives merge and intertwine in a semi-arid land that presents both hardship and blessings. Over the next few months, we would like to share this bittersweet saga with you from the (as yet) unpublished book.
CHAPTER TWO (cont . . .)
A hunting expedition
The Hills had suggested a hunting trip into the Kalahari before the Keetmanshoop wedding and Carl agreed even though it would mean separation from Margaret. He wanted to acquire some hunting skills. He knew how to handle a rifle - every Swiss man had to do his national service - but his time in the military had been cut short by his apprenticeship in London with his uncle, Emil.
Although Margaret had not seen much of this side of his personality, Carl imagined himself a hunter and welcomed the extra income. He also needed to gain the respect of his future brothers-in-law. James was chosen as ‘touleier’. He knew every ox and talked to them while selecting the pairs for the team. He hitched up the team and cracked his ‘sweep’, a four-metre-long bamboo stick with a long hide thong. Whereas some drivers lashed hard and left ugly welts on the oxen’s’ skin, James only used it intermittently.
In 1884, borders weren’t established and one could move freely into the Kalahari. In this arid world, one did, however, need to scout for pans, vleis, watering holes and for tsamma melons. These would be duties assigned to their San and Batswana guides. One also had to be wary of wild animals. The travelling party protected itself at night by lighting fires and constructing thornbush fences around the sleeping areas.
They trekked through Ukamas into the red dunes towards the Molopo, passing Smalvisch Kop, heading for Zwartmodder, a settlement with a post office and a police station, which stood in a deep, narrow, rock-walled valley. Its sandy floor was the bed of the ancient Molopo River that once flowed westward across the Kalahari and then southward until it joined the Orange River. It was now sand-choked and had not flowed for a long time.
Zwartmodder policemen introduced them to Batswana and San guides they could employ for the trip. They travelled deeper and deeper into dune territory, some of the dunes larger than any Carl had ever seen. Their crests were bare, but the long valleys between their regular wave shapes and much of their slopes were covered with dwarf shrubs and tufts of Bushman grass. Dunes spread across the group’s route, making trekking over them difficult. Slopes were 45 degrees almost up to the summit where the sand was often piled up by the prevailing wind into an apex, falling away steeply on the leeward side. After hauling the wagon up, the oxen would dash down, slipping and dragging each other and the wagon until they reached firmer ground. Everything on the wagon had to be securely fastened. The travelling party ranged out on both sides of the trail with shotgun and rifle, hoping for the chance of a shot, although usually in vain.
One night they camped in the riverbed and lit a fire. In the twilight they saw a gemsbok ambling straight towards them, searching for grazing in the riverbed. As they were downwind, it did not smell the hunters’ camp and walked into the ambush. Carl Wilhelm retrieved a bottle of Cape brandy from the wagon chest in honour of this stroke of good fortune while the men sat around watching their supper cook on the spit. The sky was darkening with streaks of lilac and gold as the sun slipped behind the dunes. They sat happily next to the crackling fire, gorged themselves with meat, drank brandy, smoked and were soon drawn into the stories told by the San, conveniently translated by the Motswana guide.
The next day at noon the hunting party spotted several ostriches. James and Carl, who were on horseback, selected an ostrich and followed it at a sharp trot so as not to unduly alarm it. They followed it for 10 miles at its own pace after which they dismounted, letting their horses feed and rest. The ostrich also stopped. They then remounted and pursued the bird at a fast gallop. The ostrich was tired after its previous exertion and they were soon able to run it down with James delivering a final crack on its head with his sjambok.
Carl knew that an ostrich in good plumage was worth about £16 and that each bird had from two-and-a-half to three ounces of the finest white feathers. He also knew that there were many competing ostrich hunters all over southern Africa including the feather barons in Oudtshoorn who had established a lucrative ostrich-farming business. The luxury fashion industry in Europe and North America was dependent on the upper-class market and their fashion fluctuations and Carl did not, therefore, consider ostriches a practical option. When the ostrich-feather market crashed at the outbreak of World War I, he was thankful for his foresight.
The hunting party harvested a few elephant tusks and some antelope skins, and supplied the locals with meat to be roasted and dried into biltong. The successful hunt also provided them with Batswana and San hunting agents they knew and trusted and who would occasionally be able to supply them with hunting produce for the Cape market.
(Join us every Sunday to take a step back in time and follow the interesting, sometimes sweet, sometimes heart-wrenching tale.)