1929 Autumn | Camp Werhert, Goats and a Phacochère

Then – 2 August to 15 November 1929, South Kivu, Congo

From the little bend in the road, kids are pouring down the main street, screaming, shouting at the top of their lung, as if Saint Nicolas himself had popped in for a surprise visit. Drying her hands in her apron, Suzanne steps out of the hut, sporting her most encouraging smile: composed, supportive. Excited like everyone else. 

The whole village flows and lines up from the curve to the chief’s hut. 

Every kid pushes and shoves to be the one to report the good news. Echoes of Marathon rose, unbidden, in her mind. The tallest and toughest one inevitably clears any competition, with a few choice words and not a little muscle play. He now stands in front of  the chief, the strongest runner, and, with just enough rasping breath to show his effort, solemnly announces a successful hunt. 

The chief grunts his pleasure, noncommittal, and swishes his flyswatter like a blessing of sort. 

From down the road, the porters now come running at a dignified trot among another heaving cloud of kids and the appreciate line of onlookers. Not a minute to lose before the meat spoils. The 2 youngsters canter down the street, lapping up the attention. A phacochère is spitted on a long pole, the beast so heavy, the wood bends in rhythm with their run. The warthog hangs by two handles cut from its very own skin. And a bit of twine to lock the head in place. Phacochère; warthog the English say, such an ugly word for this! Better than pork, better than wild pig or boar. And more dangerous to boot.

Just, turning the bend, the successful hunting party makes its triumphant way through the village, a nonchalant peloton strolling in. 

The trackers lead, spotters and beaters follow, as always. By chance, François finds himself at the head of the little troop, Mauser slinged. Total coincidence, naturally, he is not one for the adulation of the crowd; he just happened to be there, promised. She winks at the smug Nimrod of Camp Werhert, the self-styled Great Hunter. Truly modesty incarnate. And yet, she can’t get enough of this tableau: here is style, panache even, here is the essence of Success.

Returning from a successful hunt. The moment everything is what it always was supposed to be. 

The entire village was by now drawn up to watch the impromptu parade, the hunters unwittingly walking in lock step. Right here, this is what they talked about. It is the Africa they talked about, they dreamt about. It opens up a gate to a plane beyond the immediate time and place. Everything felt right, natural, familiar. She thought about the spit: it was actually … obvious, come to think of it. 

An eternal déjà-vu that spoke to humanity of Humanity.  

The impromptu parade has now reached the chief’s house, the hunters mill around, waiting to be acknowledged by the chief, listening intently to the detailed report of who, where, what. François makes a great play of congratulating all, the head tracker, the hunters, the beaters. He hoh-s and hah-s animatedly, arms wide, praising the size of the phacochère, its courage and cunning, one step short of thanking him for his sacrifice. A scene repeated after every hunt since the invention of language! 

He will get the skull and the teeth; the meat will be shared with the village. The chief nods.

She knows that everything in the warthog could and would be used, from meat to skin. But she still has some tricks up her sleeves. How about the hoofs? Here could be an overlooked delicacy she could use in her soon-to-be world famous pieds de cochons, pigs feet. It was certain, to draw some bemused looks, but a girl could have her fun too, no? That would draw a line between manioc and potato cuisines. 

The celebration marked properly, everyone scatters and returns to their tasks.

For a moment there, she had glimpsed something else than the dirt road, the adobe huts, the goats munching yellow grass, the scrawny chickens milling around and the bony dogs rolling in the dust. 

One of the goats nudges her. It’s the little lame one; she looks down and smiles. 

It bleats urgently in its squawking voice, pointing overhead. Sure enough, one of the tough young ones jumped on the neighbour’s roof to taste if the straw was better up here. He stares defiantly at her, a long straw still sticking out of its mouth, deep in the internal dialog goats always seem to have. He gingerly munches a bit of the straw. She tssks and shoos him away; what are these manners! She often tires of the boundless energy of baby goats. But she only feels a true duty to care for the scrawny little ones, like the one looking up at her expectantly. 

She pulls a handful of grain, and feeds it to him from her apron. She smiles, content. That is Nature as she sees it. 

After all, she is not really a certified yokel, she laughs. And yet, look at her now! Even darling dear François is impressed. She can bandage the udders of the goats, cure lacerations by cutting the infection open, seal in fly worms, let them eat the dead flesh, re-open, clean out and wrap again. Gotta have the stomach for it. The rest is much less interesting she finds, not worth a minute of her care. Goats are like mammal chicken, roaming around, chewing as they please, bleating, deep in thoughts. A true shepherdess.

You milked some, picked others up and slaughter them. It was only inevitability for you.

She loves sitting among the goats. It is a fulfilling activity, a self-sustaining production line: milk, bones, skin even. The more grimy side of triage, blood and guts is no issue. But when time truly flies is when she takes care of the injured and the lame, dolling out care and tenderness to the unfit, fixing the unfairness of life. That was her one emotional moment; it always would be. Animals always deliver … as a resource or as emotional support. 

But then, of course, you had to have a counter example. Like … chickens.

The village rooster is standing on an oil barrel he requisitioned as his watch tower. From his 30 centimetersstand, he has a commanding view on his squawking harem. Clucking to himself, he struts back and forth, basking in his obvious natural superiority. Wings tucked in, he cocks his head and starts an address to the mob below in clipped, sharp tones, his neck bobbing to the cadence of his walk. Warming up to the sound of his own voice, his speech swells into the dust. The audience at his feet mills around, squawking, cackling and generally failing to care at all about any of it.

He throws his head back: time to show who’s in charge! Suzanne eyes narrow down.

His chest swells, the beak opens wide, the tongue sticks out.  From the corner of his eye, he spots Suzanne glaring at him. Cock-a cock-a doodle… di?… doo? it starts as a proud crowing and petters out in a strangled gargle. Suzanne does not break eye contact. Some of his flock on the floor look up at him sideways, maybe perplexed, inquisitive, and dive back to the urgent task of scratching that promising patch of dirt. He possibly tries to roll his beady eyes, flaps his wings and … gives up, deflated. Not worth the aggravation this lot. 

He kicks a stone off the barrel, clucking about chicks these days. 

Phacochère selected, bred into pigs. Fowls into chicken.

Nature tamed, purpose-built, bio-engineered, to serve as resources. But where was the taste, the rush. Was it worth it? 

She thought so. François possibly thought not. 

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You read part 12 of Transvaal Blue Skies: the true story of how, early last century, Suzanne moved to Africa and built her laager. This is a series of loose dots weaved in a chronological thread, wrapped into a story to be plucked and observed, heard and remembered, recognised and judged. Suzanne Dulière was my grandmother.  

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