There is a sense of sovereignty that comes from atop a mountain, a perception of privacy and isolation, even of dominion. In that vast space you can sail unaccompanied for hours, afloat on tree and brush and rock. It is a tranquility born of sheer immensity: it calms with its very magnitude, which renders the merely human of no consequence. I love the painful cold of the morning, the brittle new frost beneath my boots, the breathless clarity of the sky. Put both of these together, combine space and time, weather and opportunity, and possibly there culminates a moment where a kudu hunt embarks. I feel formed by this massive hypnosis, this hushing of human drama. Danene van der Westhuyzen
Itreasure hunting kudu. I appreciate the ritual of the hunt that joins hunter and hunted together with the land that is the mother of both man and beast.
And so it is not often that I find myself in the position where I hate the very first step towards such an anticipation. As we often find ourselves in uncertain situations, it was my turn, and I knew and believed from the get-go that this hunt wasn’t the one I wanted to comply with.
We had a filming team from Sweden with a list of the animals that they wanted to film for a series in Europe. One of these animals was, of course, the greater kudu, and I anticipated and voiced more than once that we would need a good ten days for a true portrayal of a kudu hunt. They all nodded in strong agreement, with the understanding that, seeing that they only had four days, we would make do with any possible opportunity that might arise, and hope and pray that we might stumble onto one of these magnificent beasts, while remembering to press the record button.
And so we started, my mind eased and ready and eager to walk into the beautifully unknown, ready to showcase Namibia in its fullest form, without any pressure, and without any predisposition. I was happy.
We hunted hard for two days before we had to move over to our next reserve. We were successful and harvested more than what we expected. But as time approached where we were to leave, whispers did not elude my ears: a sense of agitation and impatience that crept forward and over my shoulders which just didn’t relent – like a blackthorn bush holding on to me, keeping me back, and making me bleed.
With this sense of disappointment stinging in my ears we got into the prepared vehicles and embarked on our trip to our next destination – a different habitat, a different part of Namibia, a different hunt. I trusted that the wind in our hair, music on the radio and the kilometres passing by would heal some wounds, but it turned out that it only evoked more of a longing to go back. We disembarked in the magnificent Kalahari, where savannah grasslands and witgat abound. But for them it just wasn’t enough. The ghost haunted and the ghost hungered.
After dinner the argument was finally made: “We want a kudu – we need a kudu to feature on this hunt.” And it was here, in this moment of futile disparateness that I developed a hatred of a kind that I hope I never discern in myself ever again. My face, as always, betrayed every emotion in its most illustrious degree, and I merely walked away, knowing very well that no matter the look on my face, or the image of my back, would ever change the mind of these self-righteous, entitled, wanting, undeserving and unworthy lot.
And so the next morning we set off, back to the land of the kudu, with a smiling crew, and a disgruntled PH.
The ridges on the mountains were slowly starting to glisten subtly and smoothly in the shy and slow dawn, a welcome reprieve to the two hours of silent, cold driving. My trackers on the back equally so, whether from the cold on the back of the truck or the absence of laughter from my heart. They, more than anyone, knew that no matter the outcome – the very cold would persist.
The truck was stopped at the foot of a hill, and while the hunter slowly gathered himself with binoculars, rifle checks and ammunition, I checked the wind over and over again, willing it all the while that it would dance fiercely, wildly, playfully and turning constantly as it would in the fiercest majestic thunder. But to no avail… the frost was crisp underneath my boots, the mountain spoke of protection and solitude, and I could almost smell the anticipation of the ghost.
Step by fateful step we climbed higher and higher, hour after hour, ducking underneath sekelhaak and blackthorn, and as the sun started beating down on us hard footfalls were behind me, and with a swear word every so often as I could hear shirts and trousers getting ripped apart, I felt that revenge was close. I wanted to walk them to the end of the world. I wanted them to feel and breathe and sweat ten very long, hard days. The way it was meant to be. At one point my tracker offered water, and in the moment where the hunter realised the reprieve, I turned around, whistled and adamantly showed that we had no time for a break. Onward, forward, no stop! I was going to the end of the world, demanding the sun to set, for the kudu to walk away, to survive, to be fitter, fiercer… and to be free.
“Make a plan.” All of a sudden this went through my head over and over again, as I had often been told by my parents. “And if that doesn’t work, make another one and if that doesn’t work, you are probably the problem.”
“Was I the problem?” I pondered. Whether it was dehydration, guilt or trepidation, thoughts and conflicts started mulling in my head, and as if the answer presented itself before me, the most majestic kudu bull appeared no more than 80 yards to the left of us. I halted into a brick wall. I was dumbstruck. Horrified. Floored. Amazed. Stunned, I was handed the shooting stick by my tracker. “Miss! Missssss!,” yelped Abraham. “Do you see it?”
I did. And I couldn’t argue. The hunter placed his rifle carefully on the stick, and, as if in slow-motion, the shot rang past my ear, feeling like I could catch it, even stop it, on its way to the fleeting inevitable.
The moment lingered, but just for a second. When I came to, knives were at the ready, and the slaughtering and caping started. “Did we even take photos?” I asked Abraham gauzily. “Yes, miss, you did. But the hunter – he isn’t happy.” My face, me, my inner self objected and gave everlasting meaning to this incredible hunt. The hunter knew and felt already what I was about to say. Which I regret to this day. “You sir, are not warrant of this animal, this grey ghost, this majestical beast. You need days and days and days to be deserving. To be worthy.”
And so we drove back to the Kalahari, with the moon dark and gloomy and unmoving in the back-mirror, with no word spoken, with no consensus and with doubtful glee.
But there is something about a fire on a dark night, a fire shared with others, that pulls the gloom right out of you. And especially in the Kalahari.
“The things that ask the most of us are the things most worth having,” the hunter slowly spoke, the last embers flickering away and me and him the only ones left behind in the gloom.
“Conflicts are good. Only weak people believe in harmony, and as a reward they get to float through life with a feeling of moral superiority while the rest of us get on with other things. I understand your frustration. Because today, for the first time, I understood. It was your face that gave it away.”
“What do you mean? I am the one supposed to apologise,” I answered. “I am supposed to be a professional, to do my utmost and give my best, make you happy.”
“But oh, you did”, he replied. “You see, I am an old man. I love Africa. I have spent more than three hundred and forty days pursuing this ghost over various terrain and mountains throughout this great continent. Maybe it does not add up to your ten, but it most certainly does to mine. Those days seemingly spent in vain, have now culminated in this day. Finally, after all these years, I feel content.”
They say that a person’s personality is the sum of their experiences. But that isn’t true, at least not entirely, because if our past was all that defined us, we’d never be able to put up with ourselves. As I wasn’t that night. Again, I was taught the very important lesson of experience, of two sides of an incredible story, of empathy and of living in the moment.
We never know what will happen next, what we will see, and how important a person will come into our life. If we are lucky enough to be alive, we must give thanks for the miracle of every moment of every day, no matter how flawed.
We are more than the mistakes we made yesterday. We are all of our next choices, all of our tomorrows. All of our kudus.
From the 2025 issue of Huntinamibia
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