Pig-Hunting On Santo

By Abel Tapisuwe

IT was on the cool, early morning of August 29, 1961, when Robin, Francis and I set off with four dogs, a 12-calibie gun and four cartridges for a pig-hunting.

We had our breakfast very early, which comprised six cabin biscuits for Robin and Francis and two for me with a cup of tea each. Robin was 21, Francis was 28, and I was only five.

After breakfast Robin, holding the gun, led the way with me in the centre and Francis following me closely with the dogs. We walked in this manner for a few hours, slashing our way through the deep, dark jungle or following mud-ridden, pungent tracks, made by wild pigs and bullocks.

Now and then the silence of the jungle was interrupted by the singing of birds and the cracking of dead sticks made by our dogs’ prancing steps. We walked and walked but in vain. There were no pigs, just their endless, winding tracks.

At about two o’clock in the afternoon we heard the distant, clear barking of our dogs. As I could not go as fast as the other two, we made our way slowly (fast for me). When at last we reached the pig and the dogs, Francis carried me and left

me high up on a tree where I was safe from the pig.

From the top of the tree I got a good view of the pig, a black monster about three feet high with fierce, curved tusks. It was cornered by the determined dogs in the roots of a giant tree. Now and then the pig would attack the dogs, and they would rush out like flies buzzing off the sores of an angry man.

Robin loaded the gun with a cartridge and carefully aimed at the brute. “Bang!” reported the gun. It wounded the pig on the side. The pig gave a loud yelp of pain and rushed at the dogs like a man stung by hornets, tearing a pregnant dog on the side. The dog died instantly, “Blasted pig!” swore Robin. “It will pay for this.”

The dogs chased the pig to another huge tree a few yards away. Francis carried me down and again put me on a tree nearby, Robin took aim. “Bang!” roared the gun. The shot caught the swine on his stern. The pig gave another painful whine but did not run out.

Robin shot again but missed. This time the hunted animal attacked the dogs, goring another one to death with its tusks. The pig ran into an other tree. Robin fired the last cart

ridge, hitting the pig on the head.

The victim never showed a sign of weakness, although the blood was dripping from all his wounds.

By this time it was late in the afternoon, and darkness was coming.

Robin and Francis cut two bamboos and tied their knives on them as spears. They planted them into the pig in vain.

When it was dark, we left the monster to go home, empty-handed.

We followed our tracks, but half an hour later we came back to the place where we had been chasing the pig.

We did this many times, each time arriving back at the same spot.

We decided to sleep and searched for a tree which would shelter us with its roots. We were hungry, es pecially myself, but there were no fruits or water that we could eat or drink. The night was so cold that I moved closer and closer to the tree, which was even colder. The dogs’ barking frightened me so I could not sleep.

In the morning we looked for our way home and some hundred yards away found our master’s cocoa plan tation. We hurried to our house with only two dogs and no pigs. Our worried master told us that all through the mght he had been ring ing a" bell usually used to call men back from work.

We told him our story, concluding that it might have been a devil-pig we chased.