Twenty-Five Years in a Waggon in South Africa: Sport and Travel in South Africa

by Andrew A. Anderson

I had a young and fleet horse who got quite used to hunting them; if he saw any, it was difficult to keep him in hand, and in a country of thick bush, wolf-holes, and ant-bears, it required great caution to prevent a tumble of both horse and man. The best plan I found was to stalk them between the bushes. I had a narrow escape with a lion on one of my ostrich hunts. When chasing them at full speed, I had to leap a low bush, no other opening being near; when half-way over, I saw a lion on the other side close under the branches, who raised himself as if he had been asleep—I partly passed over him. All I had time to see was his great head and mane as he jumped up, but I was off and away before he seemed to realise his position; at any rate he did not give chase, as I thought he might do. I think my horse had some inkling of the same, for he stretched out at his full speed. At night they became very troublesome, prowling round the waggon, keeping us awake to prevent them coming disagreeably close to the oxen and two horses fastened securely by reins to the trektow and waggon. Not being hunted, they were very bold. One night they killed a beautiful gemsbok within 100 yards of the waggon; the long straight horns I secured the next morning.

Several Bushmen and their families kept with me during my stay in these parts, and were of great assistance in fetching water, cutting up the flesh to make biltong by drying it in the sun, and bringing in the game when shot. Some of the Bushmen and women were well-made, the old ones poor specimens of humanity. One girl was a perfect model, with rounded, well-formed limbs, and in good condition from living on the game the men killed with their bows and arrows. These people were quite black and small, a different type altogether from the Bushmen of the south. They were of the same family as those who occupy a great portion of the Kalahara desert, of which this forms the eastern part. Their language is also different; they are called Mesere Bushmen from their small size; that word signifies woman. They were perfectly naked, the weather never being cold, at this time the thermometer being 102 degrees in the shade. Their long rough grass huts being a broken bough or a few sticks stuck up and long grass thrown over.

They have a very ingenious method of taking game by pitfalls. They dig four or five pits eight feet deep, ten long and four wide, fifty or sixty and sometimes 100 feet from each other, not in a straight line, but so placed that when they make a fence from one to the other it would form the letter V; at the point would be the pit, and no hedge, so that an animal wanting to pass through would walk down to the opening, and as the pit would be beautifully covered over with small sticks and grass, made a very inviting road to walk over. It was at one of these openings I had a very narrow escape of my life. Returning to my camp after a long day out after game, I came upon this fence, seeming an opening, and not having seen any before, I was going through, my dog in front, when I saw him disappear all at once, howling as dogs will howl when hurt or frightened. Dismounting, I pulled away some of the sticks to make the hole larger, and found one of these pits, with a large sharp-pointed pole stuck upright in the centre, and there was the dog at the bottom in a great state of mind; but how to get him out was a puzzle. As there were several long straight branches that formed the hedge, I got sufficient to put in that I might go down to take hold of the dog’s neck and lift him out, which took me an hour to perform. I took care to give these hedges a wide berth when I saw any afterwards. If a giraffe or elephant fell in he would be impaled and unable to move. Smaller game like my dog are caught alive. If I and my horse had gone in, he would have been impaled, and I should have been probably killed.

The Bechuanas have another method of catching game by pitfalls—at least many years ago it was in use, where instead of securing one, they trapped hundreds at one time. In those extensive open plains, where tens of thousands of the antelope species roam, a favourable spot would be selected, and from eight to twelve large pits dug, ranged in a row fifteen feet apart, the earth taken out to the depth of five feet, and thrown up between them, forming a steep bank; at the bottom of this pit, it would be divided into smaller pits, two feet in depth, leaving a wall of earth between each; these would be square, and three in a row. The full size of the opening would be about thirty by twelve feet, placed longways. These would occupy a considerable space; at the extreme ends a thick bush hedge would prevent the game leaping over, and several hundred men placed in addition to prevent the animals going round. When all was prepared, men would drive the game by thousands towards the pits, and as they were pressed on by those behind they made for the pits to escape, where they would fall in, and having no foothold in the small square pits above-named, had to remain. Hundreds passing over them, also got fixed, until the pits were full.

Then the grand slaughter commenced; as many as 1200 have been caught at one time. All the men, women, and children set to work; fires made, cooking begins, the skins taken off, and the meat cut up into lengths and hung up to dry in the sun for future use; not a marrow-bone is wasted, and it takes days to complete the work. This practice has been given over for years, but the pits still remain, some very perfect, which I measured. The Dutch name is “fungcut,” the Kaffir name “hopo.” The game driven into these pits would be composed of all kinds common to the country. The Bechuanas have guns and shoot the game, and have become very good shots.

At Molapololo when the people get short of meat, a hunt is got up to go out for weeks to shoot game. Thirty or forty men, each with a gun, and pack-oxen, with several waggons, proceed to the Kalahara, where game is always to be had, and when they have procured enough meat or biltong to load up the oxen, they return home. Many women and children go in the waggons with them; it is a grand picnic. I was with them on one occasion when we had a lion-hunt, and we killed three out of seven, but four of the Bechuanas got fearfully wounded.

I was outspanned about 100 miles on the north-west of Sechele’s, near a very pretty pan full of water, it being the rainy season in February, when one of these hunts came along, and outspanned a short distance from my waggon. The night previous we had been on the watch, as lions kept prowling about the waggons, but could not see any, the night being very dark. The next night the Kaffirs lost one of their largest pack-oxen, and as we saw by the spoor that there were several, the Kaffirs came to me, they knowing me very well, and asked if I would go with them and hunt up the lions, as we had several good dogs to drive them out of the bush. We mustered in all twenty-two guns—myself and my driver, a Hottentot, a capital shot, and twenty of the hunting party. Leaving the camp about two p.m., we took the lions’ spoor for nearly a mile into a small koppie with thick bush. The best part of the sport was to see the Kaffirs in their excitement, as if they had never seen a lion before; my fear was they might shoot me in their anxiety to have a shot and be the first to kill; every man had his place assigned him, but we could not draw the lions out of their cover; the dogs made a great noise, but would not go in. Finding they would not move, I placed three Kaffirs in a good position for them to keep firing with their rifles into the most likely part; this after a time brought four lions out, three others slunk away to the rear. Two had evidently been hit by the bullets, for they made for the nearest Kaffirs, whom they seized. Three were killed, having received seven to eight shots each; those that made their escape were young, only half-grown. This was a glorious day for the Kaffirs, to go home and tell their chief and friends of their bravery.

All this part of the Kalahara belongs to and is in Gaseitsive’s territory, a country nearly 200 miles square; the northern part from Molapololo is a complete forest, fine trees, bush and open glades, and is his hunting-ground, where his people procure ostrich feathers, skins, and game, and also ivory. It was, when I first knew it, full of game, but since the natives have obtained rifles, they have greatly reduced it. The Notuane river and its branches drain the country belonging to Sechele and Gaseitsive, and is a tributary of the Limpopo. Fifty miles to the east of Molapololo is a large Kaffir station, Chene Chene, within the latter territory, under the chief Maklapan. A beautiful and picturesque hill stands close to it, which is visible at a great distance. The whole country is forest and full of game. The town is twenty-nine miles south from Motsodie. The river road to the interior from Molapololo passes through a very pretty and interesting part of the country, a long range of low thickly wooded hills on the left. Twenty-two miles on the road from Molapololo is Clokan, a small stream, another branch of the Notuane, where water seldom fails.

On my last journey I found a trader, a Mr Okenshow, outspanned, who told me several lions had killed three blue wildebeest the previous night, and advised me not to let my oxen go out of my sight in the thick bush. This spot is famed for beautiful birds. After shooting some pheasants and four of these little beauties.

I went on and passed another small stream call Koopong, thirteen miles, and then to Motsodie, the large Kaffir station under the chief Linsey, which is forty-two miles distant from Molapololo; he cautioned me to look after my horses and oxen, for the country was full of lions, and they were so bold they came close up to the town. They follow the game, more particularly quaggas or zebras, and, as there were plenty of them, also koodoos, hartebeest, and wildebeest.