Return from a hunt
By Simon Barget
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We had just come back from a hunt. The women were cutting the flesh into bowls to give out to the village. The meat would last for a week. We had been successful this time but would soon have to venture out for more. There is no respite.
I have hunted since I was a boy. When I was very young I couldn’t shoot the arrow or hold the gun, but I went on the hunt. I saw with my father how it was done. I watched my uncle crouch like a panther beneath the undergrowth. I lay there in that wait, part of the orchestra of breathing, that blip in time, waiting to see if the animal had fled, waiting to see if we would get a clear shot.
I was the only one of my age who went on those trips. We set out at sun-up and carried no food to sustain us. If we caught something we would tuck in as we did. If not flesh, then perhaps honey. Or we’d go hungry. It was very difficult and sometimes I would faint.
Now I’m a grown man and hunting is my calling. I lead the hunts. I know this land like my hand. I know every rivet and fissure. I know it all. I can smell the dung of an elephant from a mile.
Hunting is more to me than survival. Hunting is more than that thirst for guts. We can get by with barley for weeks. We don’t need the meat. It is a luxury that we have grown used to. Some say hunting is the tribe’s highest calling, the pinnacle of bonding, of showing your mettle, of proving yourself as a man. I’m not so convinced.
Hunting is a lot more. It is the highest expression of who I am. The way I hunt, stand, move, lie, breathe, walk, how I am in relation to the group, and then what I do with the kill, what I choose to eat and how, all these are reflections of the inner me, they are the closest way of understanding who I am -- if there is such a well-ordered thing -- the closest to my essence. If I were ever able to mould myself into a thing, I will do it through hunting. It is my kiln; it is pure creativity. The output isn’t always tangible. But it is a combination of feeling and substance. If you look closely, you will see it. If you are aware.
I do not just hunt like the others. They seem oblivious. They sing as they move, somewhat carefree. They carry their spears without grace, as if they hadn’t considered that the spear is their magic; that the very start of the endeavour is to wield it and point. They are automatic like robots. They see the kill as the goal. I never know what will come, how it will proceed. I let the air take over and envelop me.
Just like I learned from my uncle, the young men learn from us. They may breathe in the subtlety and inherit the silence or just chatter amongst themselves. They may see the animal as god or as just a catch. They can be at one with the earth or just imagine themselves lying with their woman when they return. They can only take what we pass on. A momentary quality.
That night we came back my first son was formed. I’m very certain of that. The women become pliant and willing. They assume a coquettish glint and prance when they walk. My wife that night had been lascivious, almost childish. The strength flows from our pores and they want to be cowed by it. But I was ashamed. Because my wife doesn’t know me for my hunting, she only sees an idea. She sees the community. And when she put her hands on my body, I could see her in thrall to the idea, to the dynamic. The group had carried her along to her fervour, to her own self-forgetting.
My son will be born soon. Born of an error of judgement, a mistake. I will teach him well, I hope.
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hunter-gatherers are we. I
hunter-gatherers are we. I guess also errors of judgement.
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