The Big Guy's Gone

He had quietly walked up the stairs and kneeled at our sleeping bags before we even knew he was there. Nudging us awake, he whispered loudly: would we like to go hunting? Half asleep, half awake I searched in the dark for my phone. The blue screen lit up: 12.00am, midnight. It was the first night with just the three of us left on top of the watchtower; the others had left the previous day amidst fond farewells and a few tears. We were keen to accompany him on this midnight adventure, feeling privileged he now considered us worthy. Feelings of privilege do not imply feeling like getting dressed however so we stumbled down the stairs in our pyjama’s, sleeping bags secured under our arms as we climbed on the back of the bakkie. We would have been the most improbable and the most under-dressed hunting party in the history of the universe were it not for him compensating for our comical appearance by his sheer presence and vast experience. Even if we had dressed in “Greenpeace” t-shirts and chained ourselves in front of the wheels of the car, we would still have looked like a credible hunting party. Because of him. The sick impala we were looking for narrowly escaped with his life this night but that is the nature of the hunt: unpredictable. We returned to the farm some time in the early morning, tired and smelling faintly of gun smoke but still immensely proud that we went on a hunt with him.

While sitting around the campfire the stories of his close encounters with fate in the form of a sharp pair of horns or a lethal claw almost came alive. I remember the story of him hunting a buffalo years ago. It was the fair kind of hunt, a balanced game of who is hunting whom. The man by himself with nothing but a rifle and his senses, the animal with its own weapons and instinct, nothing more than that. How it should be. The hunter, if all goes well, will only need one or two shots; the buffalo only needs one twig breaking underfoot to become the hunter. This time he fired one shot and prepared for the second, killing shot…which never came. A blocked rifle is ever a possibility but can never come at a more unfortunate moment than when one is staring the fury of nature in its eyes. The roles have now changed and he has to think fast to avoid the horns of the hunter – up a tree, the only refuge in this situation, albeit not an ideal long-term one. The animal is right underneath him, it knows he is in the tree and it is not going to leave until one of them lies dead. Hours pass, the buffalo has not given up and neither has he. Desperate but determined he keeps one eye on the rifle he is trying to repair and the other on the eight hundred kilo’s of rage underneath him. The faulty bullet finally lets go. The second shot, at last.

We did realize at the time we had experienced a holiday unlike any other. Only now do we realize how fortunate we were to have met Tinus and his loving family when we did, out there hidden in an oasis deep in the South African low-veld. When I returned to Campfire Safaris in January of this year Tinus had just left on holiday: a pity I thought at the time, but I would be back soon enough for my next bush-craft lesson from the big guy. It was not meant to be however as he passed away not so long ago. Despite the knowledge that he undoubtedly is where he belongs, in a much better place, I can’t help but feel the loss of somebody who was taken before his time. He could still have touched others with his wisdom and motivation to defend the environment. On the other hand I am also convinced that his family and the hundreds of people he has taught will carry on his work; I know I will.

I made a short video of him back in 2005 while he was demonstrating the peculiar mock-charge of a black rhino – a hilarious hide-and-seek routine which ends in the big animal hopping around on all four’s. Both him and his wife were about to leave Campfire for a short time and this was the last lesson he wanted to show us before he left. Tinus had perfected this little skit over the years and the movie shows him hopping around just as the rhino, with the group standing around crying our eyes out laughing at his antics. Then at the end of this routine, just as he is about to get into the car, he turns around to us, waves, and says, “We love you all.”

"I lift up my eyes to the hills - where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth.


He will not let your foot slip - He who watches over you will not slumber; indeed, He who watches over Israel will neither slumber nor sleep.


The Lord watches over you - the Lord is your shade at your right hand; the sun will not harm you by day, nor the moon by night.


The Lord will keep you from all harm - He will watch over your life; the Lord will watch over your coming and going both now and forever more."

(Psalm 121 - A Pilgrim's Prayer)

Colourful Observations: Local Part 1

Bringing up the issue of race or colour in South Africa is still difficult and in some places it is simply not done. It has been over a decade now since the country ended minority rule and finally became a democracy, in the process giving freedom and equal rights to its entire population no matter their race, gender or standing. The Rainbow Nation was born at last, uniting all of its people beneath one flag, and the promise of tomorrow never tasted so sweet.

But…

Does the colour of your skin still make a difference in South Africa today? I will explore this question in the following and upcoming articles, making observations of what I have seen and heard myself during my stay here, beginning with the area where I live – the National Park and our slice of the Northern Cape province I call home.

Let me first tell you a little bit more about this place in order for you to better understand the situation: this area of the Northern Cape is, much like the rest of the province, very sparsely populated. The harsh climate (semi-desert) and the lack of industry or other economic activities are mostly to blame for this – few people would be motivated to move to this area who weren’t born and raised here. There is only one major city in this area of the province, Upington, but even many South Africans have never even heard of it let alone are able to pinpoint it on a map. But for those of us who live near it (120 km away in my case) it serves as a lifeline to a more developed world – mostly because it’s the only place around here you can get some KFC (I’d kill for a Wrap right now). The thousands of square kilometres that make up the Northern Cape know only a few “oases” – the area around Augrabies Falls is certainly one of them, as far as the regional standard goes anyway. The park itself generates a healthy number of tourists every year of course, creating much sought after jobs for the local population, but more importantly farmers were able to grow grapes in the soil along the Orange River. Raisins and wine are the two (and only) exports of this region, but it is certainly better than nothing as both goods generate enough investment and tourism to be profitable. In fact most people’s employment history could be summed up as follows: you worked in the grape industry, worked at the National Park or never worked at all. Still…most folk around here tend to fall in the latter category. Unemployment in South Africa as a whole is a problem, but in the rural areas it is even worse: 50% of the rural population is out of work at any given time, usually this percentage is even higher. Around here much of the work is seasonal (grapes), creating periods of high unemployment in between and forcing many families to live on the income generated during grape-season.

Working in the National Park could be considered something of a luxury as it provides its employees with a decent income, a place to live if they so choose, health-care and the best job security a person will be able get around here. Although compared to Europe or even more developed areas of South Africa an income of R3000 is pretty low – that is the kind of money regular employees make in the park (approximately 320 Euros). That’s monthly wages, just to be perfectly clear. Unfortunately for the locals nearly all of the vacancies at the park concern jobs requiring more formal education and work experience than most people have around here, invariably causing these positions to be filled by people from further away. On the upside however, the National Parks try to initiate projects which especially call upon local contractors and labour, such as construction work, fence building, alien plant removal or erosion control – not the most glamorous work imaginable perhaps but essential for many families to survive out here. Besides these two main employers, people do find other work in the farms and guesthouses or in shops at the nearby towns (some even travel as far as Upington). Many others find their salvation at the bottom of an empty bottle, but I will leave the harsher realities of the area for later.

The population statistics of this area of South Africa are also a bit different than what an ignorant traveller from Europe (read: me) would have expected. The majority of people belong in the “coloured” category – trust me, that is the politically correct term. Foreign visitors who expected to see a lot of Africans (black) interspersed with the occasional whitey will be surprised to find few of both around here. In case you’re having trouble picturing what exactly a coloured person looks like – well just come down to the Cape provinces and see for yourself because I’m not about to describe them to you. If somebody asked me to describe a white person I would say: well, they’re…white aren’t they? The same applies here. Coloured people are…well…coloured! There is some confusion about their origins amongst the many visitors to the area that I feel obliged to set straight: coloured people are not the result of frowned-upon romances between white colonials and black natives. While there are undoubtedly plenty of mixed-race children the coloured population of South Africa is not the result of a massive interracial love-fest. In fact the majority of coloured people are descendants from the original (as in the very first) inhabitants of this part of southern Africa, namely the various Bushman tribes. There is quite a lot of arguing over what to call the people many now know as Bushman (or San), but the truth is that they themselves do not have a name for their “people” and apparently do not really care what the rest of world wants to label them as. Good for them I say. Eventually of course some white “adventurers” came upon this area as well as some African tribes from the East, signalling the end to life as the Bushmen knew it…but that is a whole other can of worms, which I will keep warm for another day.

In the area where I live coloured people, not Africans, are the majority – one of the few places in the country where this is so. This has presented me with many sad, but at the same time comical, examples of how the government has been trying to implement an equal employment policy for the previously disadvantaged majority.

But more on that in Part 2.