It’s been a hot minute, folks! Life’s been busy in this neck of the woods, and I’ve been grinding hard with the Saffers. But do they know how to unwind? Let’s just say I found out the hard way on a recent ‘retreat’ to a place called De Stomme Jonge.
Now, one of the lads had this bright idea: “Let’s go hunting!”
Me? Hunting? Why not! I’ve faced tougher critics than a grumpy antelope. “How hard can it be?” I thought. We humans have been hunting since our caveperson days—it’s practically coded in our DNA. And I had the camouflage outfit ready to wear since I set foot on the South African shores.
Hunting apparel is ready for the big hunt. After all, hunting is in our DNA
The plan was simple: a morning hunt. Apparently, that’s when the animals pop out for breakfast at the local watering hole, much we did only at sunset at de Stomme Jonge. Just hoping we were not the prey of a greater predator. The night before, we sat around the campfire swapping questionable hunting tales, stalking prey, hunting large Kudu, initiation tales of buck shots and blooding and toasting with a certain South African delicacy—Witblits. Big mistake. Quickly, the stories grew bigger and bigger, until…
…The Witblits, being a generous host, invited its best mate Babalas to join me at dawn. And Babalas did not disappoint.
Campfire stories. How much truth is hidden in those?
Babalas showed up early, loud, and armed with a vuvuzela in my skull. In hindsight, I think he brought along his cousin too, Dronkverdriet and a couple of elephants.
I eventually staggered out of my tent around noon (so much for sunrise), with my head pounding like a stampede. Decided a dip in the dam might cure me. Just as I was floating there, an overripe grape, trying to recall when exactly the elephant had danced on my head and pondering the meaning of life and my poor decisions, flashbacks of stories told, thinking most of them cant be real, made up, when I heard shouting in the distance.
At first, I thought it was German… until I caught the words:
“Hippo! HIPPO!”
That’s when it hit me. I’m the hippo!
The Hunter or the hunted?
Turns out, a hungover man floating belly-up in muddy water bears a striking resemblance to Africa’s deadliest mammal. Who knew? The hunter had become the hunted.
Needless to say, I won’t be winning any hunting trophies anytime soon—unless they hand out medals for “Most Likely to Be Mistaken for a Hippo.”
The case of mistaken identity might have been a blessing in disguise as only after the whole ordeal, did I learn what the buck shot initiation entails. Balalas and my stomach would agree that the results of such an initiation would have been detrimental to my reputation, ego and interior of my humble little tent…and of course the poor buck’s manhood.
So I’ve decided to stick to what I know best: grapes, barrels, and good company. Next time, maybe I’ll try something safer—like paragliding off Table Mountain with a bottle of Merlot.
Until next time, stay wild (and stay sober), my friends.
And remember: if you go hunting, make sure you’re not the one being hunted… or worse—mistaken for lunch!
Campfire Q&A with the Barrelman
Q: Did you actually catch anything on your first hunt?
A: Only a wicked hangover and a new nickname—The Hippo Whisperer.
Q: What’s Witblits, and would you recommend it?
A: Think of it as South Africa’s way of reminding you who’s boss. It’s like drinking fire that forgot to be polite. Highly effective, but not for beginners—or for early mornings.
Q: How did Babalas get involved?
A: He wasn’t invited. He just shows up unannounced, eats your breakfast, and refuses to leave until mid-afternoon.
Q: Will you be going hunting again?
A: Only if there’s a wine cellar nearby. Preferably one without hippos.
Q: What wine pairs best with a hunting story like this?
A: A bold Fat Barrel Shiraz—because it bites back just enough to make you feel brave, but smooth enough to forgive your mistakes.
Q: What’s the moral of the story?
A: Never underestimate Witblits, always check for hippos, and if you can’t shoot straight—pour straight.
